The woman had arrived on a fancy motorbike, with cloth gloves covering her arms and a mask on her face. Like a typical Vietnamese woman, she was protecting herself from getting brown and now, looking at her skin, Phong was certain she’d used whitening cream. That must have been why she rejected him in the first place: he was too dark to belong to her world.

  Mr. Thiên had said the woman was his mother, proven by the results of their DNA tests. “I’ve sent the written report to your son’s email,” Mr. Thiên had said on the phone. But Phong’s son was on a school camping trip and would not be back for three days. In the meantime, the woman had been so eager that she’d traveled two hours to reach Phong’s hometown.

  Phong had imagined this to be the happiest moment in his life, but his mind was clouded by doubt. The woman in front of him bore no resemblance to the mother of his imagination. She wasn’t weeping, she didn’t look like she had suffered or been tormented by her decision to abandon him. On the contrary, she looked as if she’d enjoyed a good life. He felt a lump of resentment rising to his throat.

  “How’s Bình? How are Tài and Diễm?” The woman asked about his wife and children, casually, as if she’d known him all her life and had just gone away for a short holiday. She had a strong Mekong Delta accent. Mr. Thiên had said she didn’t live too far away from him, but refused to reveal more, saying that she’d tell him herself.

  “They’re all fine.” He avoided her eyes by flipping through the menu, even though he knew what to order. The café was quiet, just the sun roaming free through the leaves. There was nobody sitting near them since it was sunnier. Everyone crowded on the other side, under the shade of large bàng trees.

  A waiter arrived. The woman ordered a cà phê sữa đá—iced coffee with condensed milk—and Phong did the same.

  The woman cleared her throat once the waiter had left. “Son, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to find you . . .” She called him “con trai”—Son—and addressed herself as “Má”—Mother—as if it was the most natural thing.

  Phong held up his hands. “Wait . . . how can we be sure?” He avoided using “you” in his sentence, since “you” would need to take a form of address: Má for Mother, Dì or Cô for Auntie, or Bà for Madam. Calling her Madam or Auntie would be awkward. As for Mother, he’d made that mistake once before.

  “You mean the DNA results might not be correct?” The woman dabbed the sweat on her forehead with her handkerchief. “Yes, that could happen. Let’s verify our details then. How about . . . could you tell me . . . where you grew up and the year of your birth?”

  “Phú Long Orphanage. I don’t know my birthday, but I was abandoned in the front of the orphanage in February 1972.”

  He stressed the word “abandoned” and the woman flinched. She brought her hand to her face and the sight of her rosy fingernails made the lump inside Phong’s throat expand. He thought about Bình’s callused hands, the fingers discolored by hard work. The only time Bình had had her nails painted was on their wedding day. Bình had wanted their wedding to be perfect, but her parents hadn’t come. They hadn’t come because of this woman, who had thrown him away, only to appear more than forty years later pretending that things were all right.

  “Má . . . Má xin lỗi.” The woman called herself Mother again, offering her words of apologies. “Do you remember the name of any nun from your orphanage?”

  “Of course. Sister Nhã raised me. She loved me like a mother. But she died early, when I was twelve.”

  “She saved you, I know. And I am grateful,” the woman said. “Did Sister Nhã tell you how you arrived at Phú Long?”

  “I should be the one asking questions,” Phong said, determined not to be cheated again. “So. . . how did I arrive?”

  The woman recoiled at the harshness in Phong’s voice. But she quickly regained her composure. “You were wrapped in a blanket and put into a bag.”

  “A bag, imagine that!” Phong’s voice was louder than he’d intended it to be. “And where was the bag left?”

  “It was . . . hung onto a branch of the Bodhi tree outside the orphanage.”

  “How cruel,” Phong said bitterly. “An animal could have gotten to me first. I could have lost an arm, a leg, an eye . . .”

  “No animal could have gotten to you, Son. I was there. I watched you until Sister Nhã came . . . And do you know why I placed you under the protective branches of a Bodhi tree? It is said that a Bodhi tree has the power to chase away sorrow and bad luck. And as I entrusted you—my baby—to the tree, I was hoping that Buddha would protect you, because He achieved enlightenment under the Bodhi tree.” The woman stopped speaking as soon as the waiter neared their table, holding a tray. He placed two cups of crushed ice onto the table, followed by two tall glasses with metal filters dripping coffee into sweetened condensed milk. Last came two small glasses of trà đá, thinly diluted green tea mixed with ice cubes.

  Phong watched the coffee drip slowly. His life had been like this, each major event a gradual slow drop.

  “Phong . . . I’m sorry that you are upset. I deserve it,” the woman said and he looked up to see a tear slide down her cheek. “I’m quite certain that you are my son. The DNA. Phú Long Orphanage. February 1972. Sister Nhã.”

  “Quite certain doesn’t mean one hundred percent. Is there some proof, a picture?”

  The woman shook her head. “I didn’t have any means to take pictures. But I know another thing only your mother would know.”

  Phong looked at the thick layer of coffee that had escaped the filter, covering the layer of condensed milk inside his glass. Sweetness and bitterness. Perhaps the woman was telling the truth, after all. He waited.

  “I said I was quite certain. And I need to confirm this, to be absolutely sure.” The woman swallowed. “Do you happen to have a large birthmark on the right side of your chest?”

  Phong stared at the woman. Slowly, he lifted his shirt. A birthmark, the size of a palm, glistened on the right side of his chest.

  The woman started sobbing in front of Phong. Heat gathered behind his eyes. He blinked and distracted himself by taking the coffee filter away from her glass. He stirred her coffee, mixing it with the condensed milk before filling the glass with ice. He pushed the glass toward the woman. He did the same with his coffee, yearning for a sip of the fragrant liquid, but felt he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t know why he couldn’t reach out and console his mother. All those years he’d wanted her tears, wanted to know she cared about him as much as he missed her, and now she was giving them to him.

  Only Sister Nhã and Bình had seen his birthmark. He’d always worn a shirt in front of others, including his children. He considered the birthmark to be a mark of shame. He’d imagined his mother’s disgust as she saw his birthmark for the first time.

  “I am so, so sorry”—the woman choked for a moment—“for not being able to raise you.”

  “What were the reasons then? And why look for me now? Why not sooner?” He was aware that he sounded impolite, but he couldn’t call her Má yet. A woman earned the title Mother not simply through the act of giving birth but from years of raising a child, from sleepless nights when the child was sick, from many meals and conversations they shared, from the joy that doubled in her presence and the sorrow that lessened with her being there.

  The woman reached for his coffee and stirred it even though he’d already done so. She acted as if she was desperate to do something for him. She gave him the glass. “Son, in answering your questions, may I tell you a story?”

  Phong frowned. This wasn’t the time for stories, this was real life. Sister Nhã had said stories could save him, but they hadn’t. He’d seen how people had twisted stories, turning them into propaganda. Once, on the public radio, he’d heard a Vietnamese novelist declare that writers had blood on their pens; too many writers had encouraged people to go to war by glorifying it. Too many young men and women had died because they believed in the stories dreamed up by writers.

  He was tempted to say no to his mother’s request but thought better of it. She’d no doubt prepared for this meeting. Her story must be a way of answering his many questions.

  “I hope your story won’t take that long.” He drank his coffee. “I need to get back to work . . .” He didn’t want to say that, on the other side of the café, his wife and daughter were waiting. They’d insisted on coming along.

  The woman nodded and cleared her throat. “Once upon a time, during the war, there was a girl. She lived in Sài Gòn. She had a Vietnamese boyfriend but he’d broken her heart. To cheer her up, her friends took her out dancing. At the club that night, she met an American man and danced the night away with him. He was an administrative officer, not a combat soldier. His name was Tim. Tim had been in Việt Nam for a few months, was stationed in Kon Tum but was on leave in Sài Gòn.”

  Phong looked at his mother. Her eyes glowed as she mentioned Tim’s name.

  “The girl was amazed how much fun she could have with Tim on the dance floor, how much of herself she could let go.” The woman beamed. “The girl had never thought she could be friends with a Black man, but Tim changed that. He proved to her that he was a gentleman, and compared to him, her ex-boyfriend was . . . shit.” The woman gave a small laugh. “The day after, Tim invited the girl to a fancy French restaurant in the center of Sài Gòn. They had a most delicious meal. Tim managed to communicate with the girl despite their language barrier. They talked about anything and everything. Tim had several days in Sài Gòn, and they spent all that time together. They connected like soul mates. Just as he was due to return to Kon Tum, Tim lifted her hand to his lips and asked the girl to wait for him.”

  The woman didn’t look at Phong. She gazed at the palm of her hand, as if her fate had been written on it. “The girl tried to resist her feelings, knowing that Tim wouldn’t stay in Việt Nam for long, that he would be going home after his tour, and that he could be killed at any time. But her heart was stubborn. She fell for Tim anyway, and Tim for her, too. He returned to Sài Gòn often, as often as he was allowed. He loved her passionately, insanely. When the girl became pregnant,” the woman paused, “ . . . when she was pregnant, the girl was afraid Tim would walk away from her and never look back. Most Americans behaved like that then. But . . . Tim was different. When he found out, he celebrated. He picked her up, twirled her around until she became dizzy. He said he was the only person left in his family. He had no siblings and his parents had passed away. He promised to the girl that at the end of his tour of duty, he would marry her and bring her to America. The girl kissed Tim and told him she loved him. She had every reason to believe his words. He had always kept his promise.”

  Phong shook his head. The story sounded like a fairytale, too good to be true.

  “Tim longed for a family and loved their unborn child. He used to press his ear against the girl’s belly, hoping to hear the baby; he sang the baby many silly songs. When the girl was six months pregnant . . . Tim was meant to come and take her to the doctor. They’d decided that she’d give birth at Từ Dũ Hospital, the best in maternity care. The girl was very excited. She imagined their beautiful child, their future together in Los Angeles, where Tim was from. She waited for Tim . . . but he never came. A few weeks later, the girl received a letter from Kon Tum where Tim was stationed. The letter was from a friend of Tim. Tim had told the person about the girl, and now he was writing . . . to inform her . . . that Tim had died from an enemy attack. He died while working in his office, processing payroll for his comrades. The friend ended the letter with the sentence: ‘I’m so sorry.’ ”

  The woman tried to hold back her sobs. The sorrow in her eyes was so deep Phong had to look away, not wanting to be drowned by it. The sorrow was so real, he had no choice but to believe her story. A shiver ran through his body. Could this Tim be his father? If so, his father had died. Oh, Heaven and Earth.

  The woman choked. “The girl was devastated. She hugged her swollen belly and cried for three days and three nights. When she could get up, she wrote Tim’s friend a letter. She begged for his help. She waited, but no news. She wrote several other letters but never received any response. She didn’t want to believe that Tim was gone. She gathered all her money and traveled to his base camp in Kon Tum. There she learned that Tim had truly died, and his body had been sent back to the U.S. She returned to Sài Gòn, desperate. She lived with her friends then, but no one could help her. They were all working, struggling with their problems, struggling to survive. When hope had abandoned her, she received a notice from the post office. Somebody had sent her one hundred dollars. The name of the sender was left blank. It must have been from Tim’s friend. The girl wept. The money wouldn’t be enough for her to raise the baby. Her parents lived in the countryside and knew nothing about her pregnancy. Her village was controlled by the Việt Cộng and she couldn’t bring the baby of a Black American there.”

  The woman clutched her mouth with her palm, trying to stop cries from escaping her. Her shoulders shook. Her mascara was running down her face, leaving black trails on her cheeks. Phong stayed rooted in his seat. He should offer her a tissue or his words of condolences, but he was unable to move.

  The woman closed her eyes. “The girl wanted her baby to stay in her belly so she could protect him from all the cruelty of this world, but he arrived after nine months. He was such a beautiful boy, just like his father. His eyes were bright, his eyebrows very dark, his hair curly, and he had a big birthmark on his chest. In addition to this birthmark, he also has a smaller birthmark on his left thigh.”

  The world stopped spinning. Phong struggled to breathe. When he managed to fill his lungs with air once more, pain seared through him.

  The woman sobbed. “The girl didn’t want to give her baby away, but the whole world was against her. She had no means of bringing him up, she couldn’t offer him protection. So she had to make one of the most difficult decisions of her life. . . . She wrapped her son in a blue blanket. With a sedge bag in one arm, her baby in the other, she went to Phú Long Orphanage, where she knew the nuns were kind and there’d be enough food for her son. She knew it’d be safe for him to be there. Safe from the American and the Việt Cộng attacks.”

  “The girl would forever remember that night. . . . It was a dark, dark night. There was no moon, no stars. Holding her son in her arms, she sat in front of the orphanage. She fed him until he was very full. She sang him lullabies. She whispered that she loved him very much. When her son was fast asleep, she rewrapped the blanket and carefully placed him into the sedge bag. She hung the bag onto a branch of a Bodhi tree. She didn’t want any animal to get to him before a nun did.”

  Phong bit his lip so hard, he tasted the saltiness of his blood.

  “The girl waited in darkness, punctured by flickering fireflies, until her baby cried. As Sister Nhã went out and lowered the bag, the girl wanted to run to her and take her baby back. The baby was her last reminder of Tim. The girl had loved Tim and knew she should be taking care of his son. But she had no choice. She looked on as Sister Nhã brought the baby inside and closed the gate.”

  Phong gripped the table. He needed to hang on to something. This was the same story that Sister Nhã had asked him to remember by heart. It had helped lead him to his mother, but shattered him at the same time.

  The woman cried into her handkerchief. After a brief moment, she regained her composure. “The girl felt empty once she had no more baby. She returned to Sài Gòn, worked hard and earned money to send back to her family, who needed her help. She missed her son and thought about him every day. But she knew she couldn’t give him a future. She traveled back to the orphanage many times. She stood outside and gazed into the front yard. There, she saw her son crawling, and as he grew up, she watched him play with his friends, jumping and laughing. He was beautiful. He looked healthy. He had a good life. She wouldn’t be able to give him that. Toward the end of each visit, she would cry until she was emptied of tears. She always returned to Sài Gòn without saying hello to the boy. She was ashamed of herself and thought she didn’t deserve him.”

  Phong’s palms rolled into fists. What bullshit. There were no excuses for a mother to abandon her son and let him grow up an orphan.

  The woman sighed. “For a mother to maintain her distance from her child was a most difficult thing. But the girl was comforted by the fact that her love for Tim was alive. Her son was thriving and she sensed that her sacrifices were worth it: he had a better life than what she could ever give him.”

  Sacrifices? How could his mother attribute the terrible things she’d done to sacrifices? Didn’t she know how much he’d suffered? He’d become the dust of life because of her. There was no virtue in that.

  “By April 1975, the girl saw so much death around her that she decided her son was most important. She had to raise him herself. She sold the few things she owned and travelled to the orphanage. She planned to bring him some place where the Communists wouldn’t cause them any trouble. But she couldn’t get to the orphanage for several weeks: the roads were blocked, and there was no transport available. When she finally managed, the war had ended. Soldiers swamped the orphanage’s yard. She asked around for the whereabouts of her son and the nuns, but no one knew.”

  Phong shook his head. Whatever this woman said about wanting to raise him was a lie. He had stayed at the orphanage for more than three years and she didn’t approach him once. Not once. And why hadn’t she ever met Sister Nhã, to at least thank her for taking care of him?

  “The girl left the orphanage, not knowing where to go,” the woman continued. “She kept looking for her son and found out about an evacuation program called Bấy-bì Líp. She hoped her son had been able to go.”

  What bullshit about Operation Babylift, Phong thought to himself. His children had looked it up on the Internet and told him about the program: it’d evacuated around 2,500 children, a small fraction of the many tens of thousands of orphans in South Việt Nam at that time. The woman had ruined his life, and now she appeared out of nowhere, to tell him his father had died?