Mother's Tears

It was a stormy afternoon, grey clouds covered the sky, and raindrops were falling in front of the alley. I sat quietly by the window, looking out at the winding village road leading to the fields, where my mother had left many footprints. Suddenly, childhood memories came flooding back, and the image of a thin woman with a hunched back from the burden of making a living tugged at my heart.

Back then, my family was very poor. My father died early after a serious illness, leaving my mother and I alone in the world. I was only eight years old at that time, and my younger sister was still in my arms. Since my father left, my mother had shouldered everything by herself, being both father and mother. During the day, she went to the fields, and at night she took on additional sewing jobs. The lamp was always on until late at night, and the image of my mother sitting next to the sewing machine was imprinted in my memory.

Many times, I woke up in the middle of the night and saw my mother slumped over the table, still clutching the piece of cloth. I shook her:

- Mom, go to sleep. You're so tired...

Mom opened her eyes and smiled gently:

- It's okay, I'll work a little more so I can have money to buy milk for my brother tomorrow.

That sentence, until now, is like a needle stabbing into my heart.

My childhood was associated with meals mixed with potatoes, with a patched shirt that was always washed clean. Whenever the village had a festival, my friends wore brand new clothes, only I still wore the same old faded clothes. I was sad, hiding my face in a corner of the house. Seeing that, my mother quietly took off the only scarf she always wore, sat down and meticulously cut and sewed a shirt for me. That night, I heard the sound of needles and thread clicking all the time. And the next morning, a brand new blue shirt was placed on the table. I hugged my mother, choked up and unable to say a word. I still remember my mother's eyes were red from staying up all night.

My tears fell with joy. But I didn't know that from then on, my mother lost the only scarf she could wear when the village had work or when she had to go to the neighborhood...

***

When I was eighteen, I passed the university entrance exam in the city. The good news made the whole family burst into tears, but immediately after the smiles came worries. Where would I get the money to pay for school? I knew clearly that the rice jar in the corner of the house was only half full, and the wooden box containing the money my mother had saved for a long time was only a few bills. Yet when I blurted out that I would temporarily stop going to school to work to help my mother, my mother immediately dismissed it:

- No, I have to go to school!

I silently watched my mother's thin, trembling hands sign the loan papers. At that moment, my heart ached again.

The day I went to the city, my mother saw me off at the bus station. She had packed a bunch of vegetables, a cloth bag containing a few kilos of roasted rice, and her calloused hands were shaking as she slipped a few bills into my hand. Her tears blurred in the morning mist. I turned away quickly, afraid to see her cry, because I knew that once I saw her tears, I wouldn’t have the courage to leave.

During the years studying away from home, student life was difficult. Many nights staying up late to study, I remembered the image of my mother working hard by the lamp, reminding me not to be discouraged. I did many extra jobs: serving food at a restaurant, handing out flyers, tutoring... to reduce the burden on my mother.

Every time I call home, my mother only asks one familiar question:

- Do you have enough to eat?

And when I said, “I’m fine,” my mother smiled. I could hear her sigh of relief on the other end of the line, and I imagined her quietly picking up vegetables to sell at the market, or taking on extra work repairing and patching clothes for hire.

After graduating from university, I found a stable job in the city. The day I received my first salary, I went back to my hometown and bought my mother a warm coat. My mother smiled:

- I can still wear old clothes, you keep the money for the future.

I begged my mother to wear it. In her miserable appearance, her eyes lit up with joy and a tear. It was a tear of happiness after a lifetime of sacrifice.

***

Time passed, I got married, work became busier. The trips back to my hometown to visit my mother became less frequent. Every time I called, my mother still smiled and said she was fine. I kept believing that my mother would always be like that, strong and resilient like the fields in my hometown. Until one day, my sister called me with sobs. My mother had fallen in the field behind the house.

I rushed back and saw my mother lying on the hospital bed. Her hair was white, her face was deeply wrinkled. My heart ached. My mother's trembling hand held my hand, her voice weak but still full of love:

- Don't worry, I just slipped. I'm so happy to see you back...

Mom's eyes were filled with tears. As for me, I burst into tears like a child. I suddenly realized that throughout her life, Mom had cried a lot for us - silent tears, both filled with worry and happiness.

Mom recovered, but her health was not as good as before. I decided to take her to the city to be closer to take care of her. On my small balcony, I planted a small flower garden. Every morning, Mom sat there, her eyes far away watching each flower bud. Looking at Mom peacefully, I understood that deep inside, her simple happiness was just seeing her children healthy, warm inside and out.

One afternoon, as the sun set, my mother gently held my hand and whispered as if on her last will:

- My child, I wish for nothing more in my life than for you to be safe. No matter where I go in the future, remember, my tears are not because of suffering, but because I love you so much...

Those were the last words my mother left behind. Then she quietly passed away, peacefully after a long sleep.

On the day of the funeral, it was raining lightly in my hometown. In the choked sobs of my sister and I, I heard my mother's words: "Live a good life so that your mother on the other side can rest in peace."

Now, my mother has returned to my father. Whenever I think back, I see her silhouette somewhere: in the meal that still smells of boiled potatoes, in the green shirt patched here and there, in the sparkling tears when I was sent off to the city. In her whole life, my mother has never lived for herself.

Mother's tears are not only traces of hardship, but also a sweet stream that cools and supports our souls as we grow.

Source: https://baocantho.com.vn/nuoc-mat-cua-me-a190551.html