Illustration photo: QUANG DINH
Since my father passed away, only my mother has quietly come and gone from that house. A small figure in the larger, emptier courtyard, so sad that even the wind blowing through it sounds unsteady.
My house isn't big. It's just a typical one-story house, common in Central Vietnam: a dark brown tiled roof, weathered wooden walls, a smoke-stained kitchen corner, and a porch always breezy. That house once held my father's laughter and the smell of sweat from seasons of working in the fields in the rain.
It was Dad's whispered words every night when Mom's leg ached, the rustling sound of the hand fan on hot nights. Since Dad left, everything seems to have aged so much.
The starfruit tree in the yard bears few fruits, the row of tea plants is no longer as green as before, and the pair of slippers Mother left by the door always lie close together, as if she feared they would get lost, just as she had lost Father after a long sleep. Father is gone, Mother remains, alone, preserving all the old sounds, keeping us together. Because as long as Mother is here, there is home.
Every time I come home, the first thing I see is my mother sitting by the stove, her cold, purple hands fanning the charcoal. The firelight illuminates her face, revealing every wrinkle like the folds of memories. My mother has aged so quickly, so fast that every time I see her again, I'm left speechless, afraid I won't have enough time to look at her longer, to love her more.
My mother never complained. She never said she was sad, that she missed someone, or that she was lonely. But every evening, when dinner was served, she would always add an extra pair of chopsticks. "Leave them there, your father can eat when he gets home." Those calm words hurt my heart more than any tears from my mother.
Every year, when I arrived home, my mother would quickly open the door, greeting me with soft whispers: "You're back, my child?", "You must be tired from the journey, right?", "Come wash your face, dinner is ready."
Those words were so ordinary, so unremarkable, yet they melted my heart, making me feel like I was about to cry. For so many years, just sitting around the dinner table, with laughter and conversation filling the air, my mother would smile too. Her laughter was small, trembling, but warmer than the approaching Lunar New Year.
People often say, "A home with a mother is a home with a fire burning." That fire isn't just the glowing hearth on New Year's Eve, but also the look in my mother's eyes whenever we argued: "You're all family, not just friends." Just one sentence, as gentle as a breeze, yet it soothed everything.
Perhaps it was my mother who held the pieces of our family together. My father is gone, and without her, we would probably be like any other family: each person living their own life, with their own responsibilities, and the invisible distance between us growing larger with each passing year. We would see each other less often, exchange more superficial greetings, and show less affection for each other.
Once, I asked my mother, "Have you gotten used to living alone all the time?"
My mother smiled: "Your father is right here, he hasn't gone anywhere far. He even comes back to visit you all." She pointed to the altar, where my father's portrait was neatly placed between two oil lamps. I looked in that direction, and suddenly my eyes welled up with tears.
My mother wasn't used to loneliness. She only learned to be strong after her husband was gone. After my father passed away, she lived as if the rest of her life was dedicated to preserving what he left behind: the house, the memories, and most importantly, us—her children, still clumsy in how to love each other.
My sisters and I rarely say thank you or sorry. But whenever Mom calls, we both hold back our anger. I look at Mom, then at my siblings' faces, and suddenly understand that we didn't come back for the house itself, but because Mom was still there.
If I lose my mother…
This house will become a place for burning incense during holidays and festivals. It will become a stop on the journey each year, no longer a sanctuary for the heart. Siblings will love each other, but they will no longer be as close as they were in the years when their mother stood between them. Everything will be like separate puzzle pieces; even when put together, they will still be shaky, and even when glued, they will not fit together as tightly as before.
On a late afternoon at the end of the year, the wind blew from the fields onto the porch, carrying the scent of dry straw and the distant bleating of buffaloes. Mother meticulously cleaned my father's altar, placing a pair of golden-brown rice cakes on it. I watched her trembling hands, and my heart ached.
Every Tet holiday, we all come home together. Mom sits in the middle, small as a wisp of smoke, holding us siblings together. No matter how many storms rage outside, they can't break this family apart, simply because Mom is still here, preserving our peace...
We invite readers to participate in the "Springtime Home" writing contest.
As a special treat for the Lunar New Year, Tuoi Tre newspaper, in partnership with INSEE Cement Company, continues to invite readers to participate in the "Springtime Home" writing contest to share and introduce your home – your warm and cozy haven, its features, and unforgettable memories.
The house where your grandparents, parents, and you were born and raised; the house you built yourself; the house where you celebrated your first Tet (Lunar New Year) with your small family... all can be submitted to the competition to introduce to readers nationwide.
The article "A Warm Spring Home" must not have previously entered any writing competition or been published in any media or social networks. The author is responsible for copyright, the organizing committee has the right to edit, and the author will receive royalties if the article is selected for publication in Tuoi Tre publications.
The competition will take place from December 1, 2025 to January 15, 2026, and all Vietnamese people, regardless of age or profession, are welcome to participate.
The article "A Warm Home on a Spring Day" in Vietnamese should be a maximum of 1,000 words. Including photos and videos is encouraged (photos and videos taken from social media without copyright will not be accepted). Entries will only be accepted via email; postal mail will not be accepted to avoid loss.
Entries should be sent to the email address maiamngayxuan@tuoitre.com.vn.
Authors must provide their address, phone number, email address, bank account number, and citizen identification number so that the organizers can contact them and send royalties or prizes.
Staff and employees of Tuoi Tre newspaper and their family members may participate in the "Warm Home in Spring" writing contest, but they will not be considered for prizes. The organizing committee's decision is final.
The Springtime Shelter Award Ceremony and the Launch of the Youth Spring Special Edition
The judging panel, comprising renowned journalists and cultural figures along with representatives from Tuoi Tre newspaper, will review and award prizes based on the preliminary entries.
The awards ceremony and launch of the Tuoi Tre Spring special issue are scheduled to be held at Nguyen Van Binh Book Street, Ho Chi Minh City, at the end of January 2026.
Prize:
1st prize: 10 million VND + certificate, Tuoi Tre Spring issue;
1 second prize: 7 million VND + certificate, Tuoi Tre Spring issue;
1 third prize: 5 million VND + certificate, Tuoi Tre Spring issue;
5 consolation prizes: 2 million VND each + certificate, Tuoi Tre Spring issue.
10 Readers' Choice Awards: 1 million VND each + certificate, Tuoi Tre Spring Edition.
The voting points are calculated based on interaction with the post, where 1 star = 15 points, 1 heart = 3 points, and 1 like = 2 points.
Source: https://tuoitre.vn/noi-me-giu-ho-mua-xuan-20251218100640971.htm
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