In the past, whenever my mother reminded me to bring this or that with me, I would get annoyed and argue back, "I'm grown up now, Mom, you don't have to worry." But now, every time I hear those reminders from my mother, I smile to myself, my heart overflowing with affection and happiness. Because I still have my mother by my side to comfort me, to love me, and to receive her care—things that seem insignificant but represent a whole world of love she has for her children.
For many people, happiness must be about grand things. But for me, a woman entering her forties after many ups and downs in life, I've begun to think differently: happiness comes from simple things, the little things in life, from receiving love and giving the care I have for my loved ones. It's about the weekends when I can go home with my children to my mother's place, where I have fond childhood memories with my parents, with my older sister who was always willing to give me anything, and with my younger brother who always wanted to follow her to school...
Returning home meant sitting with my mother on the old, time-worn steps, stained with yellowed red bricks and covered in moss. Those steps bore the imprints of our first hesitant steps, filled with the encouragement of our parents. It was the overwhelming joy and endless applause when the youngest sister, for the first time, cast aside her crutches and walked on her own two feet—fell disabled by the polio she suffered in her childhood. My father cried like a child, his happiness at that moment, because my youngest sister's achievement was thanks to his perseverance and patience. He accompanied her every day, offering encouragement and support to keep her from giving up. He was also a pillar of support, a shoulder for my mother to lean on, giving her the belief that my youngest sister could succeed, especially when she witnessed my youngest sister's tears and falls, her feet bleeding…
It was on that very same old doorstep that my sisters and I would sit, waiting for our parents to come home from work, hoping to receive a tiny gift from the worn, faded pocket of our father's shirt. Sometimes it was chewy, sweet coconut candy, other times a sweet, soft milk candy, and from that pocket, I could still smell the pungent scent of sweat after a day of carrying sacks of pure white salt, salty with the taste of the sea, to the warehouse. On that same small doorstep of our three-room tiled-roof wooden house, I felt the boundless love, the silent, immense, and enduring sacrifice of our parents for their young children…
Returning home to my mother meant joining her in the garden to pick wild greens and cook a small bowl of soup with some dried shrimp. I noticed her steps were no longer as nimble, her back more hunched, stooping in the corner of the garden. I enjoyed cooking fish with her in a time-worn earthenware pot in the wood-fired kitchen, filled with the pungent smell of smoke. I joined her in kindling the warm fire, the whole family gathered around a simple meal, yet overflowing with love. At that humble table, my mother would tell stories of the past, stories that were neither boring nor clichéd as I once thought. So that her children and grandchildren could remember their roots, remember their maternal and paternal grandfathers from the humble years when their parents were the same age as they are now.
Isn't returning to one's beloved home always the simplest yet most wonderful journey in everyone's heart? Whether "returning home" in thought or on foot, it's always a source of happiness. All the storms of life cease behind the door. It's a happiness gathered from simple, ordinary things. It's the understanding of why, after each return to the embrace of love, mother often reminisces about old times. It's because her hair has turned gray, wrinkles deepen around her eyes each day, and she no longer has much time for the future.
Pham Thi Yen
Source: https://baodongnai.com.vn/van-hoa/chao-nhe-yeu-thuong/202510/ve-nha-hanh-trinh-tuyet-voi-cua-trai-tim-6961c3a/
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