He added more kerosene to the lamp and carried it all through the house, investigating what was happening. One hour, two hours. He thought the wind was going to persist for just a while and then stop. But it continued to hold the house in its grip. The thatched roof leaked even more. If he didn’t repair the cords, the entire house would be ripped in half. Those ravenous whirlwinds wouldn’t pass up that chance. What could he do? Hope his good karma would save them? Simply pray the storm would die down? His son still had a high fever, and if he got cold he would never survive.

  The old man burnt three incense sticks at his ancestors’ altar, grabbed his raincoat, and pushed open the door to reveal lighting streaking across the dark sky accompanied by crashing thunder.

  She watched him, terrified.

  “Please, don’t go anywhere.”

  She couldn’t finish her sentence before the door slammed shut. Gusts of wind raged through the crack below the door, and rushed onto the bed where she lay with her son. She bent over to shield him.

  “Amitabha Buddha, Amitabha Buddha,” she recited the Buddha’s name reverently.

  “My son, please . . . don’t leave us.”

  The boy looked at her. The light in his eyes was starting to fade.

  “Please don’t . . . my son . . .”

  “I’m willing to trade ten or twenty years of my life for your safety. You’re a gift from Heaven. Why isn’t Heaven saving you? My poor thing—you’re not even old enough to have learned how to call me Mommy yet.”

  The man grasped the house’s pillar to climb onto the roof, but the deluge had made it too slippery and he fell again and again. His cheap plastic poncho was torn to shreds. Damn! Was the universe challenging him? If so, he still would climb up at all costs. He fell again and landed on a sharp shovel in the dirt. His leg split open. The cold air and rain numbed his body but he continued to sweat. He had lost awareness of his senses. Everything was frozen except his heart—it continued to pound as it pumped hot blood. He was still alive but he had to finish his task.

  Now he was on the top of the roof. What could mess with him now? Wind? Gust after gust gathered to lift him away from that sodden perch. He was like a frog on a lotus leaf that could be flung off at any moment. He bit his lips, grasped the roof’s metal cords, and moved slowly. Every second felt like a lifetime. His frozen joints slowly propelled him forward. Rain lashed his face. The droplets were like thousands of needles piercing his skin. But rain and sky and sun had fallen on his face for decades; what could a bit of weather do now?

  He inhaled deeply, pressed his body against the metal cord, and crawled to the top of the roof. Below it were his wife and son. If he couldn’t protect them, what kind of man would he be?

  He reached the uneven top of the roof that had a gaping hole. He stretched his body across it and gripped a bamboo bar so tightly he might as well be nailed to it. He wouldn’t let go. It was fine now. He had patched the hole. He would stay there. He would lie there, daring the sky and earth to try to remove him. If the storm was strong enough, let it take him before it touched his wife and son. Rain? He would stay there just to see how brutal it could be. Even if the downpour turned to ice, he would never let it harm his wife and son.

  He fainted. His heart froze.

  The entire Dứa neighborhood woke dumbfounded by the effects of the previous night’s storm. People could hear sobbing coming from inside the house behind the shrub-covered hill. Neighbors rushed over with a ladder. The strongest young man climbed onto the roof. When he removed the thatching, he discovered an ashen body, barely alive. They weren’t even able to perform CPR or pour ginger extract into his mouth. As they were about to lay his body on the ground the last of his life passed from his body.

  Finally, he would return to the earth and join his ancestors.

  Thiên n was never sick again. He never had so much as a cold. He was as strong as a buffalo. And he was rambunctious, and as recalcitrant as a demon. He terrorized the entire Dứa neighborhood with his pranks. Sometimes he scared girls with a dead rat’s tail. At other times he sneaked into a chicken coop to steal eggs. He also threw snakes into pigsties and tricked dogs into eating chilies so they howled loudly all day long.

  Thiên n also fought with children and made babies cry. He even dared to fight kids older than him. They would throw stones at one another, but even when his head was swollen and bloody, he still wouldn’t look for his mother. Her neighbors constantly complained to her. All too often she had to drag her old body to their homes to apologize. She paid whoever demanded compensation. She knelt at the feet of whoever demanded it. She begged forgiveness from whoever asked her to.

  She listened patiently to their insults: “Don’t you know how to teach your kid? If he disobeys, hit him with a yoke. If he still doesn’t behave, kick him out of the house. Why do you waste your rice on such a brat? Don’t you know he could kill you one day?”

  Those who loved her expressed their concerns: “If you don’t teach him how to behave properly, he’ll be spoiled.”

  He was already spoiled. She taught him right from wrong, but he never took her word seriously, ignoring whatever she said. He came home only when his stomach was empty, or when he was weary and needed to sleep. At fifteen he started assaulting girls in an open field. At sixteen he threw a hoe at another boy’s leg and broke it. He also started stealing dogs to sell in the market for money to play games. No one could tolerate him. If she couldn’t teach him, the neighbors would. Some neighborhood kids ambushed him and beat him up. When the village could no longer stand him, they shunned him. After that, they decided they needed to banish him.

  Thiên n darted into the house and kicked over the meal she had placed out for him. His eyes rolled up to her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me earlier, Ma’am? Why did you ask the neighbors to spit on my face?” he asked insolently.

  She thought she had misheard him. She had no idea what was going on. Who had picked on him? Why did he come home and start throwing a tantrum like this? And did he just call her Ma’am—the one who raised him up through countless hardships? Wasn’t she the one who walked around the neighborhood and begged people, “Mercy, please. Forgive my son”? And now he called her Ma’am—so distant!

  “My son . . .”

  She had to crane her neck to look into his face. The face that she had once held and cooed over. The face that she had spilled so many tears over. Why was it so frigid now? Red veins netted across his eyes and his gaze sent a chill down her back. Her heart was broken.

  “Don’t call me your son. You didn’t birth me, so you are not my mom. If you want, I’ll get out of your sight. I hate you!”

  “Don’t . . . my son. . . . Please don’t . . .”

  She felt her breath rush out of her chest. Her limbs were shaking. She couldn’t finish her sentence before he stormed out. She didn’t intend to conceal his origin forever, only to ensure he would always be at her side. All animals have a history, and so do humans. She simply intended to wait until he grew up, and then she would tell him the truth. But before she was able, her neighbors, out of anger, threw those facts into his face. How could he bear such agony?

  But the fury that overwhelmed him when he left for the district market soon dissipated; he no longer hated her. He considered himself fortunate. Because, at that moment, he started to believe firmly that his birth parents must be powerful people. They couldn’t be anything like this rural, bleary-eyed woman living in crushing poverty. For some inexplicable reason, he believed that his parents must’ve sent him to her the way a prince was sent to live with commoners for the sake of safety. Whatever dangers his parents had been facing would surely have passed by now, and they would thus be eager to find him. And then they would surround him with luxuries to atone for all he had suffered during the past arduous years.

  He returned to playing his normal games but didn’t forget that strange vision that he had. He knew he would have to return to her house as she had all the information and contacts he needed to find his real parents. He popped through the door suddenly and startled her as she was reciting the Buddha’s name. Was he back to take revenge on her? She was afraid. She sensed that he was no longer her son.

  “If I find my parents, I’ll compensate you.” His voice cut through the air like a steel blade, slashing her heart.

  What could she ever want from him? How could he compensate her?

  Through three moves and five storms, she had been able to keep all of her son’s keepsakes—the note with a fingerprint and the cloth he was brought in: I’m not a good mother. I beg you to take care of my child, and raise him to be a good person.

  Thiên n snatched up that piece of paper, his eyes moving across it ravenously. Sixteen years had passed, so the ink was faded into a weak gray. But the handwriting brought tears to his eyes. The piece of paper would allow him to meet his parents. They would welcome him back with tears of joy. His life was going to change. He would spit on the Dứa neighborhood. He would strut and stride out victoriously.

  Picturing the glorious scene made him tingle with excitement. He grabbed an old sack with his clothing and his real mother’s note. He already had a plan.

  He placed a sentimental announcement with a local television station: Although sixteen years have passed, I’ve always missed you and dearly want to reunite with you. Wherever you are, please call me at this number.

  He was ready with a few mementos he had been given and his current portrait so that his parents would be able to recognize him. They only needed to rush to him and shower him with kisses, hugs, and money to erase his poor fate.

  Everything was perfectly set up. Now he just needed to wait.

  She knew this day would come. She had already prepared for it. Plants must always keep their original roots.

  She was blessed to have had him for so many years. His presence had helped alleviate the sixteen lonely, empty years she spent mourning her husband. She was lucky to have had someone to take care of and to love.

  She prayed to Lord Buddha, pleading with Him to unite her son with his family so that his shattered heart could heal. She couldn’t be a good enough mother for him. She had to return him to where he belonged.

  She wept every night.

  Whenever her phone rang, the sound was a lightning bolt straight into her heart. She always sighed in relief when it was only a friend on the other end wanting to talk. She held her breath if the voice on the other end ever asked about him.

  She was filled with conflicting emotions. She wished there were more hours in each day so she could stay with him as long as possible. She dipped deep into her life savings to buy him new clothes so that he would look smart and confident when meeting his family. She made chicken broth and bought roasted pork for him. She sat next to him while he ate so she could feel his warmth. She was afraid that when she woke up, his scent would be gone. Then she would be like a living corpse awaiting only the day of reincarnation.

  Looking at her, he thought she would want to eat with him, so he put some meat in her bowl. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was the first time in her life that Thiên n did that. She still had a place in his heart.

  She thought to herself, her son’s life will have an uplifting ending. Heaven and Buddha will still bless him. His parents got in touch three months after the message aired. They lived in another city, about three hundred miles from them. Thiên n was so excited. Although they didn’t come by car to pick him up, their address gave him hope. It was an opulent city, with skyscrapers and magnates who were ready to squander their money without regret. His parents must be magnates too. They must have been waiting to surprise him when he turned seventeen. He would travel by himself unannounced and spend some time marveling at the luxuries that he would soon wallow in.

  After he got the news from his parents, he lost his appetite and couldn’t sleep. He packed and asked for directions. He booked a taxi. He had a million things to do before he could meet his new family, so no time to care about that decrepit, bleary-eyed woman who silently wept in the back of the garden.

  He left with a backpack over his shoulder without looking at her. Was it because he was so thrilled that he forgot to find her and say goodbye? She saw him open the gate and walk to the village road, his head high, his stride confident and excited.

  She knew that she had already lost him. She went quietly back to the garden; she failed to compose herself to call him back for a proper goodbye.

  Seventeen years.

  Separation and loss, once again, gashed her fragile heart.

  The Dứa neighborhood sighed with relief. Girls were less guarded. Chickens and dogs wandered around more freely. Fewer assaults and fights occurred.

  She was the only one afraid of walking out of her house. Nobody called her Thiên n’s mother anymore. They called her by her husband’s name, Mrs. Sẳng.

  Mrs. Sẳng was worried that Thiên n would not come back. Would he regret not saying goodbye to her, and would he come back to bid her farewell? For seventeen years they had lived under the same roof and shared sweetness and sorrow. Would he simply come back to get something that he forgot? Was he nostalgic about this place, this house, this garden? He had found his parents by now. But he also would treasure memories of this home.

  She couldn’t walk out of the house, fearing people would ask about her son.

  She wouldn’t be able to bear it if someone said something to make her think of him.

  She reminded herself that she would have to forget him, but failed. Her heart ached. Her eyes were sore. Excruciating pain permeated her body. She realized that she was already old. When she brought him into her family, she was only forty. But if they had lived together much longer, she would have become just a burden to him.

  Oh, how silly she was!

  He did, in fact, come back.

  From a distance, he watched her go in and out of the house alone. He couldn’t tell whether he despised or respected her.

  He left again.

  Some neighbors saw him roaming around downtown. His mustache was messy, his eyes protruded like a buffalo’s, and one could see the hunger in his face.

  A neighbor stopped him, asking, “Why are you here? Mrs. Sẳng hasn’t been well lately. You should go home to check on her.”

  He rolled his eyes. He grew cranky, irritable, and aggressive. It was as if by making such a suggestion, the man were asking for trouble. Fortunately, Thiên n recognized the man. He had saved him as a boy when a pot of boiling water had toppled onto him. If the man hadn’t carried him to the hospital, Thiên n surely would be in his grave now. He wavered. He was about to walk away, but the neighbor insisted. He hovered around him, pestering him as if it were an interrogation.

  “Get away! I’m mad, so fucking mad now!” Thiên n burst out cursing. He howled like a mad dog.

  Later Mrs. Sẳng heard the story from the neighbor without understanding what had happened. Wasn’t Thiên n able to meet his parents? Or had a thug attacked him while he was on his way to look for his parents? Had the thug stolen his belongings and beaten him so fiercely that he became a crippled nomad? Were his “parents” frauds, and had they swindled him out of his traveling money? Thinking of all the possibilities was like rubbing her guts with salt. Thiên n was seen as a minacious young man in the Dứa neighborhood, but he was just a naive, foolish boy. She knew her son well.

  Thiên n knew that she had given him her entire savings so that he could travel and reunite with his parents. She had nothing left to give him, so he had to toil in the district market to earn a living.

  She knew why he had despised her but entreated a neighbor to take her downtown to find him. She would take him back. She would even borrow money to give to him again, hoping that he could reunite with his family.

  From behind the brewery, he saw her approach. That rural woman again—what did she want from him? He didn’t know if he hated her or loved her. He wasn’t even sure what to think about himself. Who was he, really?

  He had gotten to the address his parents sent him.

  When he entered the house, three towering boys with playing cards in their hands and menacing expressions stared at him. A shirtless man sat in the middle of the house beside five pigs whose bellies had been slashed open. He looked up and saw Thiên n. The man just grunted and called to his wife in the back of the house, “Your precious son is home!”

  The boy could hear the sound of running water and then a woman appeared, her legs and arms wet. She looked at him awkwardly.

  “Are you . . . ?” Thiên n asked with a visceral bewilderment. Was he confused? Or were they? He was excited to display all the mementos in his bag. The man slammed the cleaver onto the chopping board and snatched the faded piece of paper from his hand.

  “Bitch, who could even read your horrible handwriting?”

  The woman glanced at the piece of paper with embarrassment, and said, “Come on in, son.”

  The three brutish boys eyed him up and down as he moved past. Their faces shared no resemblances to his.

  He sensed that he had been fooled. They were tricking him to collect a ransom from his birth parents. He collected his belongings and managed to hide his emotions. If he made even a minor mistake, that cleaver might just slice his throat. It would be no different than cutting a pig’s and then his life would be over.

  He tried to look confident, but his voice was trembling.

  The man laughed uproariously. “See, you aren’t his mother.”

  The woman was awestruck.

  “It was . . . when I was cheated . . . and I couldn’t afford to keep you by my side . . .” she stammered.

  Then she looked back and forth. Thiên n held his breath.