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There was a time when Minh wanted a new pair of shoes for school.
His old pair had split open at the front, making a sharp “clack” with every step.
His classmates laughed, and Minh laughed along with them.
When he got home, he tied the shoes together with a piece of wire and told his mother, “I like them this way.” She quickly turned toward the kitchen.
Minh saw her shoulders tremble just before the sound of running water filled the room.
Those years taught Minh how to endure long before they taught him how to dream.
He learned to give in before he learned to ask for anything.
He learned to care for others before he ever asked himself what he truly wanted.
Some children grow up surrounded by gifts.
Minh grew up hearing his parents say, “Go ahead and eat.
We’re already full.”
Hạnh sat quietly beside him, listening as Minh shared those old memories.
“When I was little, I always thought adults never got tired.” He looked down at his own hands.
“Only later did I realize…
no matter how exhausted my parents were, they always stood in front of me as if everything was fine.”
Outside, the rain continued to fall on the old tin roof.
His phone lit up again.
It was Linh calling.
Minh quickly wiped away his tears before answering, forcing his voice to sound normal.
“I’m here.”
A weak but cheerful laugh came from the other end of the line.
“Big Brother, why do you sound like a duck with a cold?”
“Because I’ve been missing you too much, so I caught a cold.”
Linh giggled.
“Don’t cry, okay?”
Minh fell silent.
“I can tell just by your voice,” she continued.
“You’ve always been like this, Big Brother.
You keep everything to yourself.
When I broke a glass, you took the blame.
When I got a bad grade, you even told Mom it was because you hadn’t taught me well.”
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