I owe my mother a promise.

It was also in September, but more than 30 years ago; that day my mother saw me off at the bus station as I headed to Da Lat city to attend university. With a backpack on her shoulder and a suitcase full of clothes, books, and other supplies, she prepared for my enrollment.

I was over 20 when I finally got into university, my first time studying far from home, so I felt quite disoriented. From then on, my hometown, the fields, the hills, the winding village roads gradually faded from my daily life. Back then, my mother was only in her early forties, a mature, strong woman, ready to do any job to provide for our lives; to cover the food and education costs for my eight siblings and me. But when she saw me off to study far away, she couldn't hold back her tears, unable to control her grief because she missed me so much. Later, I heard her say: Every afternoon, she would look towards the mountain range overlooking Da Lat and cry alone. At the age of 20, I was strong enough and promised my mother: “I will try my best to overcome difficulties, study hard, and visit my family and you twice a year, during Tet and summer vacation. After graduation, I will return home to work nearby and take care of you both in your old age.” This is a very true saying about everyday life, one that, even after more than 30 years away from my hometown, I haven't been able to fulfill. During my four years of university, I visited my hometown and family during the first two summer and Tet (Lunar New Year) breaks. But from the third year onwards, the burden of providing for my growing younger siblings, who were still in school and facing financial difficulties, became overwhelming. I realized I had to earn extra money to support my studies. During holidays and Tet, I often looked for part-time jobs, so I rarely got to visit my mother. Especially after graduating with a degree in Literature, I returned home hoping to find work so I could be close to my parents and help them in their old age. However, because I didn't know anyone and lacked money, I couldn't find a job for three months. Returning to Da Lat city, I went to the university to withdraw my application, and a fellow native of Binh Thuan introduced me to a government agency. I found a job, got married, and have been living in the city of a thousand flowers ever since.

Time passed quietly. With my hardworking, studious, and inquisitive nature, I quickly adapted, mastered the job, and made significant progress each year. My small family also settled down, and my children grew up well-behaved and diligent in their studies. Each year, I regularly took some time off during my vacations to visit my hometown and my mother. However, the number of visits gradually decreased as I got older and became reluctant to travel far. My elderly mother, meanwhile, always longed for my return.

This September has arrived, and my second child is going to Ho Chi Minh City to start school. Seeing my child off to school fills me with mixed emotions, tears welling up in my eyes as I bid them farewell. In my current state of mind, I miss my mother terribly, from over 30 years ago. Although economic conditions are no longer as difficult as they were back then, what parent wouldn't feel heartbroken when having to part with their child? The poet To Huu wrote verses that emphasize the boundless love, pain, sacrifice, and loss of a Vietnamese mother for her child; alongside this is the love, respect, gratitude, and affection of a soldier for his mother, representing the filial devotion of a son. He wrote verses that stir the hearts of children when they think of their parents: “I travel across a hundred mountains and a thousand valleys / Yet it is nothing compared to the countless heartaches of my mother / I fight in the war for ten years / Yet it is nothing compared to the hardships my mother endured for sixty years.” My mother, now nearly 80, has grown up and started her own family, and my father passed away more than 10 years ago. So, every time we all come home for my father's death anniversary, she goes in and out with difficulty, calling out the names of each child and grandchild, always jokingly scolding: "Damn you all – you've all grown up, I can barely recognize you!" Returning to my hometown after each trip back to my village for my father's death anniversary and to visit my mother during the Vu Lan festival in July, I often have sleepless nights missing my children who are studying far away. I feel so guilty towards my mother because I haven't been able to fulfill my promise to "...return to my hometown to work nearby and take care of my parents in their old age." Mom, please forgive me.

Source