The lights were still on in the house.

That year, my family didn't talk much about Tet (Lunar New Year). Everything was so normal that it seemed unremarkable. Dad still came home late from work, his shirt still smelling of exhaust fumes. Mom was still busy in the kitchen, the familiar simmering of the soup pot. I sat in my room, fiddling with the flickering table lamp. The family atmosphere flowed slowly and steadily, like the ticking of an old wall clock. Only when the lights in the house suddenly went out, and darkness quickly descended, did I realize the atmosphere was gradually fading.

Power outages at the end of the year weren't uncommon, but that night was darker than usual. Outside, the wind whipped through the trees, whistling across the tin roof. Inside, all sounds faded. My mother fumbled for a flashlight. My father quickly put down his briefcase in the corner and whispered, "Are you alright, child?" I replied, "I'm fine," though I felt a little uneasy. My family sat around the wooden table in the middle of the house, the place we usually only used for a quick dinner.

The dim flashlight beam illuminated my parents' faces. My father's hair had turned grayer than I'd expected. My mother had lost weight, and age spots had appeared around her eyes. I usually overlooked these things, or deliberately ignored them because I was busy with the outside world. In the darkness, without a phone, without a television, without anything else interfering, the images of my parents gradually became clearer to me.

Dad told me a few stories from work. Mom listened, smiling, gently fanning the boiling water in the pot to cool it down. I remained silent, holding onto the warmth around me. There was a very slow, very gentle feeling, as if time was stretching out, allowing my family to be together a little longer.

Then my mother suddenly remembered the pot of sticky rice cakes she had cooked since the afternoon, still sitting on the charcoal stove. Without electricity, she took the cakes out and cut them for the whole family to eat. The aroma of hot sticky rice spread, so fragrant and familiar that it soothed my heart. My father brought out a few more bowls and arranged them neatly on the table, as if this were a very important meal.

We were silent for a long time. No one was in a hurry. No one complained of hunger or that the food was bland. Dad chewed slowly, and Mom gave me a piece of fatty meat that was bigger than usual. I suddenly thought, happiness perhaps isn't about days with a perfectly prepared script, but about unexpected moments like this, when everything is so simple that it doesn't need planning.

After dinner, Dad took down the old guitar hanging on the wall. It had been a long time since I'd seen him play. The strings were a little loose, the sound wasn't as perfect, but he still strummed each chord slowly. Mom sat leaning against the wall, her eyes closed, her lips gently moving to the familiar melody. I sat opposite her, listening to the music blend with the wind outside, and a strange feeling of happiness and peace welled up inside me.

No one talked about the future. No one mentioned New Year's plans. No greetings were spoken. But in that moment, I understood that what kept this family together wasn't grand promises, but the quiet presence of each person, at the right time, in the right place.

The lights came back on near midnight. The sudden switch-on made everything clear. Dad hung his guitar on the wall. Mom tidied up the dining table. I went back to my room. Everyone returned to their familiar routines. But from that day on, I began to see my family differently. Happiness was no longer a vague concept or something to be achieved. It lay in those small, everyday moments: when Dad asked a caring question without needing a reply; when Mom gave me the best piece of food without saying much; when the whole family sat together in the darkness without feeling lonely.

The end of the year often brings to mind summaries, setting goals, or aspiring for grand things. But for me, family happiness is very simple; sometimes, all it takes is a power outage, allowing family members to sit together, look at each other longer, listen to each other more, and realize that they've had enough for a long time.

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Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/chao-nhe-yeu-thuong/202512/nha-con-sang-den-1d53328/