Chapter 3 - CHAPTER 3: THE DAY MY MOTHER DIED

Instagram 👉Jein2606👈

Tik tok 👉jien.yn

Facebook 👉

---

The day my mother died, it didn't rain.

The sky was strangely clear. The sunlight was thin and cold, pouring straight down onto the hospital courtyard, as if nothing there had just ended. I stood outside the emergency room for a long time, watching the light on the sign switch off, listening to the stretcher wheels roll farther and farther away, my mind completely empty. No sound was loud enough to be called pain.

The doctor spoke quickly. Medical terms washed over me like water. I only caught the very last sentence:

"The family should prepare themselves."

Prepare for what—I didn't even know.

My mother lay there, lighter than I had imagined. Her skin was cold. Her breathing was gone. I touched her wrist, the place that used to tremble whenever her heart condition flared up. This time, it was absolutely still.

"I'm here," I whispered.

"Why are you lying so still, Mom?"

"Wake up. Wake up with me. Don't sleep anymore."

There was no answer.

I had always thought I would cry a lot at a moment like this. But I didn't. The tears had been drained long before. Drained through the months I sent money home. Through the nights I worked part-time until my body ached. Through the time my mother told me to quit school. Through the time she tore up my notebooks over a small toy.

I knew she did those things so I would hate her. And back then, I cried a lot.

Everything had already spilled out—long before she closed her eyes.

The funeral was held quickly. Not because we were poor, but because no one wanted to stay long with my grief. People came, lit incense, said the words they were supposed to say, then left. My stepfather stayed outside more than inside. He answered phone calls, smiled, nodded along to things that had nothing to do with the woman lying in the coffin in the middle of the house.

I stood beside the coffin. I didn't move an inch.

My aunt's daughter stood next to me.

At that time, she didn't understand anything yet. She only knew I was "chị"—a quiet grown-up with tired eyes. But she clung to me tightly. Wherever I went, she followed. When I bent down, she bent down. When I stood up, she stood up. Once, I turned and saw her hand gripping the hem of my shirt, pale enough that blue veins showed through.

"Chị,"

she asked softly,

"is your mom sleeping?"

I didn't answer right away.

"Yes,"

I said after a beat.

"She's sleeping for a long time."

She nodded and believed it instantly. Children always believe the person they choose to trust.

The two boys stood a little distance away. They didn't come closer. They didn't intrude. The older one stared at the coffin for a long time, his gaze so heavy I couldn't read it. The younger one stood slightly sideways, shielding his sister from the draft—an instinctive motion.

The men in this family…

they all learned how to be silent very early.

That night, when the last person left, my stepfather turned on the music. Not loud, but loud enough to shatter the stillness a mourning house should have. I said nothing. I just looked at him.

He didn't look at me either. He knew. He simply dared to speak, not to act. He chose to wear me down with words, with indifference, by turning my pain into something insignificant.

Forty-nine days later, he finally showed his true face.

And I left.

But before that, there was one night I could never forget.

The night marked seven days since my mother's death.

The little girl sneaked into my room again. This time, she didn't ask permission. She climbed straight onto the bed and wrapped her arms tightly around me, as if afraid I might vanish after the one who had just been laid down.

"Don't go,"

she whispered in the dark.

"If you go, Mom will be sad."

I placed my hand on her back. Small. Warm. Her heart was beating fast.

"I'm not going,"

I said.

"I'm here."

That was true.

At least at that moment.

---

Present

The next morning, my aunt led me behind the house. It was early; dew still clung to the leaves.

"There's something,"

she said quietly,

"I think you should know."

I listened.

She told me about the time my mother's condition became worse than expected. About being called back to work before her surgical wound had healed. About no one taking her to the hospital early enough. About the phone call that came too late. About a hesitation that should never have existed.

"It wasn't just one person,"

my aunt said.

"It was a chain."

I stood still. I didn't react. But inside my chest, something closed shut.

"Don't do anything reckless," she added.

"Remember, there are still people who love you and worry about you."

"The dead… can't be called back."

I nodded.

I didn't tell her that at that exact moment, I had already made a decision:

I would not let everything pass as just an accident.

That evening, the little girl tugged my hand and pulled me out into the yard. She pointed up at the sky.

"Look, chị,"

she said.

"So many stars."

I lifted my head. The sky was vast.

"If your mom is up there,"

she continued,

"she can probably see you."

I bent down and looked straight into her eyes.

"Then,"

I said,

"you have to look at me carefully."

She nodded hard.

The two boys stood behind her. They didn't come closer. But they stood close enough that if anything happened, they would be the first to step forward.

That night, I didn't sleep.

I sat by the window, watching the porch light spill onto the yard, thinking about every person who had stood there, spoken there, or stayed silent at moments when silence was unforgivable.

I understood one thing very clearly:

Some deaths don't need knives or guns.

They only need enough indifference.

And from the day my mother died,

something inside me died with her.

What remained…

began learning how to live without mercy,

no longer caring whether my own death would matter.

When I think about the past.