Motherly love

BAC NINH - He leaned against the door of his house; the sun was higher and harsher, and the birds flitting from branch to branch in the trees in front of the gate had all flown away. A gentle breeze carried the familiar scent of the countryside, the smell of plowed earth and wildflowers in the fields...

Báo Bắc Ninh•19/07/2025

The mother brought a bowl of steaming hot porridge, scooped a spoonful, and held it close to his mouth, her voice sweet as if coaxing a child:

- Eat some chicken egg and perilla leaf porridge to help with your cold, child. Eat it, then take your medicine, and you'll feel better soon.

He turned his face away from the spoon of porridge; he wasn't a child who needed his mother to feed him. He snatched the bowl from his mother's hand, blew on it, and slurped it down. The porridge was delicious, made with perilla leaves picked from the backyard and eggs from a newly laid hen. After a few more sips, his empty stomach warmed up, and beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and nose.

The mother took a towel and wiped his face, whispering softly:

- Eat slowly, why are you slurping so loudly instead of using a spoon?

He smiled at his mother and then slurped down the bowl of porridge. His mother went to the kitchen, brought up the pot of porridge, and poured it all into the bowl he was holding. He blew on it and slurped it up again, finishing it in no time. His mother was very happy; she placed the bag of medicine on the table and quickly poured a glass of water.

- Take this medicine, son. I bought two doses; take three pills now, and three more tomorrow morning.

He peeled a few pills, put them in his mouth, swallowed them, drained his glass of water, and lay his head down on the pillow. He closed his eyes, wanting to sleep, but his mother patted him on the back:

- Wait a minute, let me give you a traditional Vietnamese massage (gua sha). You've been standing in the rain for almost half an hour, how foolish of you!

Illustration: AI

The lazy man lay face down on the bed, reaching behind him to lift his shirt. His mother applied oil, then used a coin to scrape down a dark red line from his neck to his waist. She winced and sighed, her thin hands massaging her son's shoulders. He buried his face in the pillow, savoring the familiar feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time.

It had been a long time since he'd visited his mother in the village, probably more than half a year. In the cramped, suffocating city, his rented room was tiny, barely big enough for a bed and a motorbike. Yet, he clung to his place, resolutely refusing to return to the village. There was no work for him there, and besides, what was the point of going back when all his friends had gotten married or moved away to make a living? And the deepest reason was that he didn't want to go back; he was afraid of seeing familiar sights and remembering the past.

His mother is sixty years old this year, still sharp and healthy. The small garden behind the house, where she grows vegetables and raises chickens, provides enough for her to exchange for rice and meat at the market. He works in the city and sends money to his mother every month for extra shopping. His mother's frugality is ingrained in her; she doesn't spend a single penny of his money, carefully wrapping it up and storing it in a wooden chest under the bed, waiting for the day he gets married. Then she'll exchange it for a few taels of gold to give the couple some capital to start a business.

He was unaware of his mother's calculations, diligently working day after day, occasionally enjoying a hearty meal with his comrades at the factory. Life went on slowly, and he knew he was no longer young enough to indulge in carefree wanderings. During sleepless nights, he thought of his mother at home; when she grew old and frail, who else but him would care for her? Thinking this, he focused on working hard to earn money, now to support himself, and later to support his mother.

With his son's wedding approaching, the carpenter gave his workers three days off. Everyone happily packed their bags and went home to their wives and children, but he was left alone. Accustomed to hard work, he felt terribly bored after only half a day in his rented room. Overwhelmed with boredom, he jumped up, locked the door, and drove back to the village. The road home wasn't far, but it was deserted. Midway through, he encountered a thunderstorm. Without a raincoat or shelter, he drove straight home, catching a cold and developing a fever.

After his mother finished giving him a traditional Vietnamese massage (gua sha), the medicine he had just taken took effect, and he felt his nasal congestion ease and his headache lessen. He lay down straight, thinking he could probably fall asleep now, as he heard his mother's footsteps fading into the kitchen. Reaching out to turn off the light, he closed his eyes, strange dreams washing over him, and he drifted off to sleep, his hair drenched in sweat.

***

He was awakened by the shuffling sound of his mother's slippers in the backyard and the loud crowing of roosters in front of the gate. The early morning sun shone through the windowpane, falling on the leaves and onto the cement floor in tiny dots. He wearily patted his forehead a few times and then pulled back the curtain to wash his face at the water basin. His mother was busy tending to the vegetable patch; seeing him, she smiled, placed the basket full of fresh green onions on the firewood rack, and then went to the chicken coop to get a few bright pink eggs.

After washing his face, he went back to bed to fold the mosquito net and blankets when he heard his mother calling from the kitchen:

- Come down and eat some porridge and take your medicine, son. Are you feeling a little better?

He went downstairs, smoothing his disheveled hair.

I'm feeling better now, Mom.

The porridge was served in two large bowls. He and his mother sat opposite each other, with the steaming pot between them. Tapping the metal spoon against the porcelain bowl, his mother asked him why he hadn't visited his hometown in so long. He said he was busy, then pretended to eat intently to avoid her sharp gaze. His mother sighed, stirring the now-cold porridge.

- Forget about it, and then think about getting married, son.

- What is there to forget or remember?

He frowned and clicked his tongue. Her image appeared, initially blurry, then gradually becoming clearer. A gentle slope led to her house; during their school days, he would ride his bike to her gate every morning to wait for her so they could go to class together. After graduating, he went to carpentry school, and she to tailoring school. He had loved her for a long time but never confessed his feelings. Before he could express them, she suddenly got married. On her wedding day, he cheerfully attended, but only sat for a short while before finding an excuse to leave early. Since then, he's stayed in the city, only returning home for holidays.

"So, have you found someone yet? If not, let me find someone for you," the mother asked, staring intently into his face.

No, that's too much trouble.

He quickly swallowed a spoonful of porridge, then stood up, took the empty bowl, and threw it into the sink in the backyard. His mother sighed, watching him go. She only had this one son, and all her love and hopes were poured into him. She wanted to tell him so much, but he was as secretive and silent as her husband. Mother and son each carried their own burdens, neither willing to confide, keeping everything hidden in their hearts. It was like a pebble piercing their hearts, a painful burden they could not bear.

Thinking about that, the porridge in his mouth choked, he couldn't eat anymore, so his mother cleared the dishes and took them down to the kitchen. After taking his cold medicine, he felt more alert and brought a chair out to sit on the porch. The chirping of birds in the trees sounded strangely joyful, the bougainvillea bushes in front of the gate swayed in the early morning breeze, a few women returning from the market laughed softly outside the fence. He was half-asleep, drifting off to sleep, when a voice rang out:

- What have you been up to all this time? When are you back?

He opened his eyes, saw his neighbor, and replied:

- I came home yesterday afternoon.

The neighbor, with a stern expression and one hand on her hip, spoke loudly:

No matter how busy you are, you should still come home. Don't leave her all alone like that.

He kept his mouth shut, not knowing what to say. At that moment, his mother came out, speaking and laughing at the same time:

- Come in and have a visit. My child just got home and has a cold again.

"What a miserable situation. Wouldn't it be better if the two of you took care of each other here?" The neighbor sighed. "I'm not going in, I just came to ask for some ginger."

- Let me go to the garden to dig some peaches, wait a moment.

- No, let me do it, let me do it.

The neighbor woman drawled, then nimbly walked past the side of the house and around to the back garden. Left alone, he stood gazing at the pots of rain lilies, neglected and stunted, their withered leaves drooping to the dry, barren ground. From the far end of the garden, he could occasionally hear the conversation between his mother and the neighbor. Suddenly, he felt a pang of emotion, both from the lingering pain in his body and from the strange feelings that welled up and choked his chest.

A little later, the neighbor returned, carrying a sprig of ginger. She stopped in front of the house and told him that his mother had been ill last month, and she and several other relatives had come to take care of her. Someone wanted to tell him to come home, but his mother wouldn't allow it, fearing he would be delayed in his work. She also said she would be fine in a few days and didn't need to bother anyone.

He leaned against the doorframe; the sun was higher and harsher, and the birds flitting from branch to branch in the trees in front of the gate had all flown away. A gentle breeze carried the familiar scent of the countryside, the smell of plowed earth and wildflowers in the fields. His neighbor had disappeared, but her clear voice and the story she had just told lingered in his mind.

The sound of his mother's footsteps rustling in the kitchen, it seemed she was tidying something up. That soft, quiet sound was so familiar; from childhood to adulthood, in this house, he had heard it so often that he had become accustomed to it, and sometimes he thought it didn't exist at all. With tears welling up in his eyes, he hurried down to the kitchen. His mother was sitting on the floor peeling peanuts. Seeing his face, she said:

- Mom made pumpkin and peanut soup for lunch today, or would you prefer porridge?

He crouched down beside his mother, placing his hands on her shoulders:

- I like anything Mom cooks.

His mother smiled, her calloused hands stirring the beans in the basket. He gazed at the deep wrinkles around her eyes, the few strands of black hair nestled among the gray, all tied together with a three-leaf clip at the nape of her neck. His hand traced down her back; she was so thin, her spine protruding beneath her thin dress, the blue veins clearly visible on her arms, marked with age spots.

- Can I come back to the village and live with you, Mom?

The mother thought he was joking, so she replied:

- Yes, come back here and grow vegetables and raise chickens with Mom. The two of us will live on meager meals.

He propped himself up on his knees, thought for a moment, then suddenly said:

- From now on, I'll come home to see you every weekend, Mom. I'll work in the city for a few more years, save up enough capital, and then I'll come back to the countryside to think about starting a business.

The mother looked up at him, her still sharp eyes showing a hint of surprise mixed with suspicion, but it all passed quickly. She sighed, a gentle, forgiving expression filling her face:

- You can decide whatever you want, I just want you to be happy and healthy, and I also want you to get married soon so you have someone to take care of you.

He smiled without answering, turned and went upstairs, his heart filled with a mixture of joy and sadness. He knew that the plans he had just told his mother were only temporary. And his mother probably knew that too, so she didn't seem to object or support him. But he was sure he could keep his promise to return to the village every weekend. The road back to the village wasn't far; at the end of the road was the house nestled behind a hedge, with a vegetable garden and a fish pond, and the image of his hardworking mother. A mother's love was boundless; she always waited for him to come home, her arms outstretched like a bird's wings, protecting and caring for him as she did in his childhood...

Short stories by Le Nhung

Source: https://baobacninhtv.vn/tinh-me-postid422151.bbg