Tears on the day my child returned home.
After more than half a century of waiting, Mrs. Pham Thi Lai (Dai Dong commune, Nghe An province ) finally welcomed her fallen soldier son back to his hometown. Just a few months after that reunion, the 104-year-old mother quietly closed her life, carrying with her the serenity of having fulfilled her greatest wish.
On April 3, 2025, when the remains of martyr Nguyen Cong Hoa were brought back to his hometown from Quang Tri , many villagers shed tears. Her legs were no longer steady, her hair white with age, and her eyes dimmed with time, but upon hearing the news of her son's return, Mrs. Lai seemed to regain her strength. The elderly mother, leaning on her children and grandchildren, slowly took each step towards her son's coffin.
The moment her wrinkled hands rested on the small earthenware urn containing her son's remains, the entire courtyard fell silent. No one could hear what she said. Only tears streamed down her face, etched with the wrinkles of more than a century. Perhaps for the past 52 years, she had been waiting for this moment.
Mrs. Pham Thi Vinh (daughter-in-law of Mrs. Lai) recounted that many years ago, the family's biggest worry wasn't the failure to find the remains of fallen soldier Nguyen Cong Hoa, but rather the fear that her mother wouldn't have the strength to wait until the day she could see her son again. "Every year, she gets weaker. Everyone was afraid she would pass away without knowing where Mr. Hoa was buried," Mrs. Vinh said. That worry grew as Mrs. Lai got older. However, it seemed that something still held her back in her heart: the promise she made to her son, who left at the age of eighteen.
During the war years, Mrs. Lai's family had many children. Amidst the fierce bombing, she and her husband named their two sons Hoa and Binh, expressing their hope for a peaceful country. In 1969, Nguyen Cong Hoa volunteered for military service. Back then, Hoa was so thin that he had to stuff stones in his pants pockets to meet the weight requirement for the recruitment examination. Knowing that war meant life and death, his family wanted to arrange a marriage for him before he left, but he refused. "I'll get married when peace comes. If something happens, it would be terrible for someone else." That promise remained unfulfilled.
During his short leave, he prepared a large pile of firewood, filled jars with water, and went to say goodbye to each neighbor. On the day he left, he left his mother his favorite shirt. His mother treasured it, believing he would return one day to wear it again, but then the war took him away forever. In 1973, the death notice arrived. His mother collapsed.
In 2022, a glimmer of hope emerged when the family learned about a grave bearing the name Nguyen Cong Hoa at the National Martyrs' Cemetery on Highway 9 (Quang Tri). The descendants began a journey of verification. A series of journeys followed, military records were reviewed, and old witnesses were sought out.
One day before the Lunar New Year of 2025, the DNA test results were announced. The person who died on the battlefield years ago was indeed the young soldier Nguyen Cong Hoa. The good news came like a miracle. To everyone she met, Mrs. Lai smiled and said, "We've found Hoa. He's been gone for so long..."
Over 50 years, still waiting for news of my son.
Not far from Mrs. Lai's house, in Lam Thanh commune, another waiting continues. This year, Heroic Vietnamese Mother Nguyen Thi Chau is 94 years old. Old age and heart disease have significantly weakened her health. Her steps are slower, she spends more sleepless nights, and her longing for her son never diminishes.
Sitting beside her mother, Ms. Hoang Thi Hoa (the third daughter) recounted that almost every day her mother would mention her two brothers, reminiscing about their impoverished childhood, meals mixed with potatoes and cassava, the day she saw them off to war, the letters sent from the battlefield, and the times she cried until her tears ran dry.
My mother's family had seven children. In 1968, Hoang Van Xoan, the eldest son, volunteered for military service. Two years later, his younger brother, Hoang Trung Tinh, followed suit. When he wrote his application to join the army, Tinh was not old enough, and his parents disagreed, but the young man earnestly begged to go. He said, "First, I'll be green on the grass; second, I'll be red on my chest." Finally, his father reluctantly signed his son's enlistment application.
In April 2025, Heroic Vietnamese Mother Nguyen Thi Chau had her DNA sample taken to assist in verifying the identities of fallen soldiers. When the official explained the process of comparing DNA with unidentified remains, the elderly mother's eyes lit up. After more than 50 years of waiting, she had renewed hope. Perhaps one day, her children would return. Perhaps she would be able to embrace them again, just as her grandmother Lai had once done.
The older brother fought on the Binh Tri Thien battlefield, while the younger brother was a special forces soldier operating in Laos. Then the war swept them away. Letters became increasingly infrequent. At the end of 1972, the first devastating news arrived. Tính's special forces reconnaissance unit was killed in action. Before the mother could recover from her grief, just a few months later, another death notice arrived. Her eldest son had also died. In a short time, she lost two sons. The pain was so immense that she almost collapsed. "My mother would cry and faint whenever she saw someone in military uniform passing by the house," Mrs. Hoa recalled.
More than half a century has passed, the country has long been at peace, and most of the soldiers from that era have returned to their families. But for my mother, the war is not truly over. Because her two sons still lie somewhere in the mountains and forests, their exact resting place unknown, unable to return to their homeland. Because at the age of 94, no one knows how much longer she has to wait.
(To be continued)
Source: https://tienphong.vn/hai-nguoi-me-hai-cuoc-doi-cho-post1853536.tpo
