They claim words can’t break bones, yet they cut deep. Doctor-unseen wounds. Unhealing wounds.
I enjoyed the gloomy living room after twilight. I liked the calm, and the wall clock ticked, something I’d learned to like in my quieter years. Jasmine tea still smelled faint.
I was folding clothes when it occurred. When he said.
My boy. My only kid.
“You have no place here. Get out.”
His stammer was absent. Not a blink. He stood there with his arms crossed, chatting like a neighbor, not his lonely mother. She missed meals to eat and wore old clothing to start school with fresh clothes.
I assumed I misheard. Perhaps my aged ears were deceiving me. But no. His wife calmly watched her phone on the sofa without objecting. My 10-year-old grandson glanced up before returning to his video game.
I regarded my kid. I giggled nervously. Minh, what do you mean? Where would I go?
He maintained his tone. “We decided. Your room becomes our workplace. Your rent-free stay is over. Time to move forward. A senior home is nearby.”
I felt like I was pushed over a precipice. Sharp and final, his words resonated. A retirement home? Nobody there knew me. I fed them and watched their kid while they worked, traveled, and lived. Now I was dumped like a used up object.
No argument. So I packed that night. Pride is a weird old acquaintance. I packed my things into my final suitcase with trembling hands. I wouldn’t weep in public. I’d disappoint them.
Not to the retirement center. Instead, I took a bus to the city’s perimeter. A little riverside hostel charged me for a small, dirty room. It smelt like ancient books and past summers. It was silent. Nobody inquired. It was enough.
That first night, I stared at the ceiling and then the battered luggage in the corner.
I looked at my bankbook, still securely wrapped in my second-wedding ao dai silk.
They were unaware. No one did. I saved discreetly for years. Every tiny job, holiday red envelope, and extra currency went into the piggy bank under the rice bag. A tiny life insurance payment followed my husband’s death. Never touched a penny. Make them think I was broke. Make them believe I needed them.
I opened the bankbook that night.
Nearly $1 million. Enough to act, not to be wealthy.
Something daring. An unexpected event.
I grinned to myself in the dark.
I set out at morning with straight shoulders and a growing thought.
I lived for others for sixty years. I sacrificed, cooked, cleaned. Traded ambitions for duty.
That morning?
My morning decision was to live for myself.
I would shake them to the core.
Waked up sooner than in years. The city awoke with sellers putting up carts, motorcycles roaring, and the river sparkling in gentle golden light. I drank terrible instant coffee and opened a blank notepad I purchased the night before.
Page one was blank. Like my life today. Clear slate.
Always wanted something little. Simple. Mine. Maybe a little café. Some quiet flower store. Warm lighting and quiet music. When we were young, I told my husband I wanted to run a riverside teahouse. He chuckled and added, “Only if you promise to bake.”
All done. Open a tea house with the money.
Not just any teahouse.
A refuge. My kind of woman. Women forgotten by time and family. Women who had exhausted themselves. Women still sing, tell tales, and have expertise. We were honored, not burdened.
The next three months were my toughest and most beautiful work.
A small, dusty store on a tree-lined street was for rent. It was ancient, falling apart, yet charming—like old Saigon. I hired a local carpenter to repair the entryway. I painted the inside walls light lavender and cream. I polished all my secondhand furniture to shine. A refuge for wandering souls, I dubbed it Floating Clouds.
Two customers arrived the first day: an old guy who wanted hot water for his noodles and a young girl who sat calmly with headphones and departed without ordering.
I didn’t mind.
In the second week, news spread.
Not quick. But steadily.
Serving lotus tea in porcelain glasses. Peanut-palm sugar black sesame cookies. Used vintage Trịnh Công Sơn recordings as background music. A handwritten notice was posted outside:
Free tea for over-60 ladies. You’re seen. Love you.”
Each day brought additional ladies.
Some brought fading grandchild photos. Others recounted lost marriages, resentful children, and abandoned goals. Sitting together, we shared tea and ourselves.
I smiled again.
I felt alive again.
That day, something unexpected occurred.
A sunday. Late afternoon. As I arranged marigolds in a vase, a familiar automobile drove by.
Son of mine.
He left slowly, uncertain. With their son’s hand, his wife followed. All three looked at the entry sign.
I stayed put.
I remained silent.
I continued arranging flowers.
He entered cautiously. Elderly people laughed and sipped tea in the almost full tea house, shining with peaceful pride.
“Mom?” he whispered.
I turned to him. Actually looked.
He seemed tiny. Not the giant who had forced me out of his life, but a guy who didn’t realize what he’d lost.
“I heard about this place,” he said. “My friend’s mother arrives. She identified you as the owner.
I nodded calmly. “Yes. I started.”
He looked around. But…how? From whence did the money come?
“I saved,” I said. “I remembered myself.”
His wife opened and closed her lips. My grandson yanked her sleeve, staring at me.
“I didn’t know you could do this,” he muttered.
I knelt alongside him. “You don’t know much about Grandma.”
He hesitantly grinned. It’s cool.”
The three stood uncomfortably. My son massaged his neck back. “We considered letting you return home. We could accommodate.”
Held his eyes. Steady. Quiet.
I said, “No.”
Not mad. Non-bitter.
For sure.
‘This is my home now.’
After the final client went, I sat beneath the patio lamps. The stars rippled in the river below.
I considered all the years I had cornered myself for others.
Not anymore.
Some believe retribution is best cold.
But mine?
The cups were exquisite and fragrant with jasmine and recollection. Sesame cookies and music accompanied it, while ladies laughed at being seen.
Best of all?
Tasted sweet.
