Tea hills in the early morning mist

- Mornings in the Tea Hill area, the northernmost point of the country, usually begin very early. The sun is still hidden behind the eastern mountains. The small, gray concrete road winding through the residential area is still damp with the night's dew. Branches and blades of grass are silently covered in morning mist, creating a solemn atmosphere like a memory that hasn't yet faded.

At around five o'clock, Mrs. Hoa opened the door and stepped outside.

She wore a white, comfortable outfit, holding a red fan; her figure was small but agile. Behind her stood the spacious three-story house of her son and daughter-in-law. Inside, her son, daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren were still asleep. The house was large and well-equipped, yet strangely quiet in the morning.

Mrs. Hoa closed the door very gently, as if afraid of disturbing a sleep that she knew would last until she finished her exercise and returned home.

Illustration: Vu Nhu Phong

Mrs. Tam had been standing in the open field at the edge of the neighborhood for some time.

Mrs. Tam was short, her gray hair neatly tied up. She stood upright, her hands clasped in front of her stomach, breathing evenly in a familiar rhythm. Beside her was Mr. Lam, her husband, supporting their son, who was over thirty years old but whose eyes still held the vacant look of a child. The son sat down on a stone bench, his hands fiddling with the dry leaves that had fallen the night before, muttering incoherent words.

Seeing Mrs. Hoa, Mrs. Tam smiled:

- You're out so early!

"There's nothing to do at home that would keep me so late," Mrs. Hoa replied, her voice flat. "I'm old now, I don't get enough sleep."

Mr. Lam gave his son a few familiar instructions and then quietly turned back. The two women stood side by side, beginning slow, gentle exercises to join the group practice. They said nothing, only gazing towards the sun gradually rising behind the mountains.

Mrs. Hoa was from a purely agricultural background. Born and raised in the lowland rice paddies, her youth was spent in the fields, with the successive rice harvests. Her husband died early, leaving her to be both mother and father, raising her children. Her son was her only hope. She scrimped and saved every penny to provide for his education, hoping he would escape the hardships of her life.

When her son grew up, found a stable job, bought land, and built a house in the Tea Hill area, she moved to live with him. When she left her hometown, she took with her a few packets of seeds, some vegetables, and a simple belief: in old age, living with her children and grandchildren is enough.

But city life, even in a poor, mountainous province, has its own rhythm. Her son and daughter-in-law work from morning until late at night. The grandchildren go to school and then attend extra classes. During the day, the house is just her and the television, which she turns on and off. Dinner is a rare occasion when all family members are present, and even then, it's always rushed. Words of inquiry become less frequent with each passing year.

As for Mrs. Tam, she was born and raised in a small town. Both she and her husband were long-serving civil servants, living a disciplined and modest life. They saved every penny of their salaries and allowances to buy an additional plot of land. Upon retirement, they sold their old house and land for a considerable sum, used the money to buy land in the Doi Che area, built a sturdy single-story house, and deposited the rest in the bank for emergencies. For Mrs. Tam, finances seemed to be a breeze.

But tragedy struck when their only son turned eighteen. A traffic accident on his way home from school killed him, but left him with impaired cognitive abilities. From then on, their lives took a different turn – quiet, patient, and full of challenges.

Two women, two different destinies, meet during seemingly ordinary morning exercise sessions.

Initially, their conversations revolved around the weather, the price of vegetables at the market, and exercises to alleviate back and knee pain. But then, as if by natural law, deeper secrets gradually began to be revealed.

One morning, after finishing her exercises, Mrs. Hoa sighed:

"Mrs. Tam, don't you see? Even with so many people in the house, it's always cold."

"Why would you say that?" Mrs. Tam asked.

– My children and grandchildren are busy, I understand. But they're so busy that they don't even ask how I am all day. Sometimes I feel like an outsider in my own home.

Mrs. Hoa spoke slowly, each word seemingly falling into the quiet stillness of the morning.

"I don't need them to take care of me," she continued. "Just pay a little attention. That's all. I know that old people and young people have different routines, but it's still so upsetting, you know. Sometimes, at dinnertime, I wait and wait for them to come home, and I can't bear to eat alone, so I sit and wait. When they finally come in, my son says, 'We'll eat later if we're late, Mom, we didn't know you'd be sitting here waiting.' Or like just yesterday afternoon, I put a pot of braised fish on the stove, but I was busy sweeping and tending to the vegetables and plants, and I completely forgot about it. My daughter-in-law came to the door, discovered the burning smell, and screamed, making me rush in and almost fall. Before I could even recover, she snapped, 'How many times have you left it like this already?!' 'You're old, Mom, I don't need you to do anything. Just stay put and let me have some rest.' She rattled off a string of words as if I were useless. She must be annoyed that I'm living with her!"

Mrs. Tam listened in silence, without interrupting. She looked towards her son, who was playing in the dirt, her gaze distant. Then she spoke:

– It's just a small matter, don't overthink it. "Every tree has its own flower, every family has its own story," I just wish my son would speak up and scold them like that, but I can't. There are always people at home, yet it's always empty.

"What do you mean by 'absent'?" Mrs. Hoa asked.

– There's no laughter. There are no ordinary stories of a complete family.

No sooner had Mrs. Tam finished speaking than it suddenly started raining heavily, forcing the entire group in the housing complex to take shelter under the eaves of nearby houses.

Perhaps because of the cold rain, because of the accumulated frustrations, or because the story was left unfinished, Mrs. Hoa continued immediately.

"To be honest, Mrs. Tam," Mrs. Hoa said, "Sometimes I think it would be better not to have children at all."

As soon as the words were spoken, the atmosphere seemed to become heavy.

Mrs. Tam looked up at Mrs. Hoa. Her gaze was not reproachful, but deep and sad.

– What you said… was very harsh.

"I know," Mrs. Hoa said, lowering her head, "but I'm upset."

Mrs. Tam remained silent for a long time, then spoke slowly:

– She's looking at life from a perspective of lack. As for me, I'm looking at it from a perspective of loss.

"What did you lose?" Mrs. Hoa asked.

"I lost a healthy child," Mrs. Tam said, her voice even but trembling. "Every day, watching my child live like a child, it hurts me. But I still have my child to care for, I still have work to do. If one day…," she paused, "If one day he is no longer here, I don't know how I will live."

Just then, Mrs. Tam's son suddenly jumped up, ran out into the pouring rain, shouting and waving his arms wildly. Mrs. Tam, panicked, ran after him, trying to comfort him and shield him from the rain.

– My child, stand still…

Mrs. Hoa stood still. For the first time, she witnessed firsthand the hardships of that elderly mother. Not through stories, but right before her eyes.

When things calmed down, Mrs. Tam returned, tired but composed.

"You see," she said, "I don't have time to complain. If I do, who will take care of my children?"

From that day on, Mrs. Hoa changed.

She no longer complained so much. She started bringing Mrs. Tam bowls of hot soup and bunches of fresh vegetables from the countryside. Mrs. Tam, in turn, taught Mrs. Hoa how to make tea and how to maintain good health.

Two old women, each patching together a piece of the other's life.

One morning at the end of the year, when the fog dissipated faster than usual, Mrs. Hoa said:

– I've thought about it. Our children and grandchildren aren't heartless. They're just living their own lives.

Mrs. Tam nodded.

As for us, we are learning how to live the rest of our lives more peacefully.

The sun rose high. The Tea Hill glowed brightly. The two old women resumed their familiar health exercises – slowly, steadily – as they continued through the rest of their lives, knowing contentment, compassion, and mutual support amidst life's changes.

Source: https://baolangson.vn/doi-che-trong-suong-som-5071885.html