“The girl has punished herself for what she did,” the woman tried to hold back tears. “She’s an old woman now, but every day, she yearns for her son. She hopes that he’ll sympathize with her situation. She’s afraid he thinks she doesn’t love him. But she does . . . she’s always loved him, with all her heart. She didn’t want to give away her baby, a baby conceived by love and born from her flesh and blood.”

  Phong’s mother leaned forward, reaching for his hand. “Son, I am so sorry . . . I hope you can forgive me. The things I had to do, they were terrible. But please understand . . . I had no choice.”

  At her touch, Phong flinched. He snatched his hand away. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t believe you.” He said each word clearly. He called her “bà” and addressed himself as “tôi,” as if they were strangers. “Every word you just said is a lie! My father is not dead until you can show me proof otherwise.”

  “Phong . . .” She reached for him again but he shifted his chair away from the table.

  “Show me a picture of my father then. A picture with you and him in it!’

  “I’m sorry, Son. We never took pictures.”

  “Ha, I knew you’d say that. How about letters? You said his friend wrote you a letter from Kon Tum.”

  “Yes he did, and Tim wrote me when he was alive, too. But I burned everything as the war ended. . . . I was stupid. Like many people at that time, I was afraid of being punished for being linked to Americans.”

  “Oh how convenient!” Phong said even though he knew many people had destroyed their papers.

  “I understand your doubts, Son, and it’s good you’re being careful. But let me assure you that only your mother would know about your birthmarks. And the sedge bag, the orphanage . . .”

  Phong glared at the woman. He hadn’t expected to be so angry at his mother once he found her. “You said you came back for me many times? That was a lie. Sister Nhã would have seen you. She said no one looked for me.”

  “But Phong . . . she didn’t know I’m your mother. I spoke to her twice, before I was pregnant. I’d visited the orphanage, on behalf of somebody else. That’s how I was sure she would take care of you well.”

  “If you knew Sister Nhã, why didn’t you hand me over to her yourself? Why abandon me like that? What if an animal got to me first?”

  “As I said, I was there to watch you, Son. . . . I guarded you from afar, until Sister Nhã brought you inside. As for the reasons of me not asking Sister Nhã myself . . . I can’t explain. I was not thinking straight. Tim had died and I could hardly make it through the days—”

  “I don’t care about your stupid reasons!”

  “Phong. Má xin lỗi con. Má xin lỗi!”

  “You say you’re sorry? If you were, why didn’t you look for me? It’s been a lifetime since you abandoned me. I was beaten, abused, rejected, put in prison.”

  “Son . . . believe me, I’ve longed for you throughout these years. But I was sure you’d left for America. I thought you’d be better off without me.”

  He shook his head. “I tried to find you because people told me you’d thrown me away because I was ugly and I wanted to prove them wrong. I tried to find you because my friends had mothers and I had none!”

  “What those people said is not true, Son. You are beautiful and it broke my heart, having to do what I did.” She reached out for him again but he leaned back.

  She sighed. “I understand how you feel, Son. I hope you can believe me, but if you don’t . . . there is someone you can ask. That person knows how dire my circumstances were during the war.”

  “You mean Mr. Thiên?”

  His mother swallowed hard, then shook her head. “No . . . an American. Mr. Đan. You’re friends with him, Thiên told me.”

  “How the hell did you know him?”

  His mother put her palms against her face. In her silence, he heard motorbikes roaring on the road outside, as loud as the screams of someone who had just lost his father.

  When his mother looked up, tears had filled her eyes. “Mr. Đan . . . he . . . he was my sister’s boyfriend, back in 1969. My sister . . . her name was Trang.”

  Love and Honor

  Bạc Liêu, 2019

  “Grandma . . . what are you thinking about?” A soft voice pulled Quỳnh out of her reverie. She had been remembering a rainy night in 1970 when she’d walked the streets of Sài Gòn alone, after her sister’s death. She shuddered, reaching out for Diễm, and held her granddaughter close. She wished she could lock the gate to her past and throw the key away. At the same time, she wished she could talk to herself—the young girl of eighteen—and tell her not to lose hope, because despite feeling like she’d died along with her elder sister, she would survive and would never let anyone look down on her, ever again.

  “Grandma, will you sing for us?” Tài nestled against her, and Quỳnh wished she had found Phong sooner; she loved being the grandmother to his two wonderful children. She was lying on Tài and Diễm’s bed in their home, inside the cocoon of a white mosquito net. Tài and Diễm were already teenagers who no longer needed lullabies to lure them to sleep, but still, they asked Quỳnh for songs or bedtime stories every night during her visits. As if they, too, wanted to make up for lost time. As if they needed her as much as she needed them.

  Quỳnh embraced her grandchildren in each arm. The warmth of their bodies calmed her turbulent mind. It had been a year since her reunion with Phong, but the reality felt as fresh as a rice field that had just received seedlings.

  “À à ơi . . .” Her voice rose against darkness. “Gió mùa thu mẹ ru mà con ngủ năm canh chày, là năm canh chày thức đủ vừa năm hỡi chàng chàng ơi, hỡi người người ơi em nhớ tới chàng em nhớ tới chàng . . .” She sang louder, as if to declare that she had a voice, and nobody could erase it.

  That day at the café, when Quỳnh revealed her connection with Dan, Phong was stunned. He had blinked, stayed silent, then shook his head. “You’re worse than I imagined,” he said. “You’ve ruined two lives instead of one. What kind of an aunt are you, to give your niece away, after Hoa’s mother had just died?” He flung some money onto the table for his coffee before hurrying out to the street. She was sure she would lose him forever, but a few minutes later, Diễm ran toward her, calling “Grandma! Grandma!”

  Now, on the bed, she kissed Diễm’s cheek, inhaling the girl’s scent. Earlier in the evening, she’d rubbed coconut oil on her granddaughter’s hair to be able to comb it, and was astonished at the healthy glow of Diễm’s skin, the unique beauty of it. For many years, Quỳnh had spent money on whitening cream like so many Vietnamese women she knew, and on sunny days never left her house without covering herself from head to toe. Now she could see Heaven had blessed people with their different skin colors, and regardless of their differences, they were beautiful in their own ways.

  “Grandma, that’s a really romantic song.” Diễm giggled. “Do you think about Grandpa Tim when you sing it?”

  The word “Tim” sent a knife through Quỳnh’s mind. She swallowed. “Yes . . . of course. I used to sing him lullabies and he’d always fall asleep with a smile on his face.” As Trang had often said, she’d launched the javelin, she had to follow its path.

  “Tell us more about Grandpa Tim, Grandma,” Tài asked.

  The bedroom door was open and Quỳnh could see the altar Phong had set up for his father, from which three red dots peered down at her, like eyes of a hovering ghost. Even though Phong was a Catholic, he followed the Vietnamese customs of ancestor worship. He had burnt incense for his father before going out with Bình that night to a cải lương play. He prayed to his father so often, whispering Tim’s name. Every time Quỳnh saw her son do it, she wanted to scream.

  “Grandpa Tim really didn’t have any family left, Grandma?” Diễm nudged her.

  “Well . . . he was the only child. His parents died young. He was so lonely that he joined the military, to seek companionship.” She caressed her grandchildren’s backs. “Now . . . close your eyes and dream of something sweet, darlings. You have school early tomorrow.” The more she loved them, the more she feared their questions.

  “I don’t like school,” Diễm said. “And I hate some of my textbooks. They say American soldiers were bad, they were killing machines. When we read those passages in class, I can feel my friends staring at me.”

  “Oh . . . I’m so sorry.” Quỳnh hugged her granddaughter tighter. “Don’t feel like that, please. You should feel proud about your grandpa, not ashamed of him. Remember that he wasn’t a combat soldier? He wasn’t involved in any fighting. He was an administrative officer who helped a lot of Vietnamese, actually. He processed paperwork and payments that enabled the rebuilding of houses, medical clinics, and schools in Kon Tum.”

  Quỳnh wondered if she should go to Diễm’s school and talk to her teachers. Atrocities did take place during the war, but they weren’t just committed by the American side. What purpose did it serve anyway to teach children about hatred, to continue glorifying victory while not acknowledging the human costs on all sides?

  “Grandpa Tim would want me to study in America, don’t you think?” Diễm asked. “Schools there would surely be better.”

  “Shut up,” said Tài. “Don’t stand on one mountain and say the next is more beautiful. America has its problems, too. You know there’s tons of racism there too, right?”

  “Tài, no harsh language, remember?” Quỳnh tapped her grandson on his shoulder. “It’s true that each country has its own issues, and it’s up to us to live our lives the best we can, wherever we are. . . . As for studying overseas, if you are keen, we can arrange it, but perhaps at university level, not before.” Some of Quỳnh’s friends had been sending their school-aged children and grandchildren to boarding schools in the U.K. and the U.S., and although Quỳnh could afford it, she wanted Diễm and Tài to stay close by. She needed to see them often, now that she’d found them.

  “Something is going on with my father . . .” said Tài. “He’s become restless again. He’s thinking about doing another DNA test and register the results with a larger company to have a better chance of finding Grandpa Tim’s relatives. He said Grandpa Tim must have had aunts and uncles who might have children. Now that he’s with you, he feels luck is on his side, Grandma.”

  Shock jolted through Quỳnh’s body before settling into the pit of her stomach. So heavy, it pinned her down onto the mattress. She’d just found Phong, Bình, Tài, and Diễm, and now she risked losing them again. It had taken her nearly two years since meeting Dan and Linda before deciding that she would embark on a search for her first son. There were many reasons that changed her mind: Khôi’s secure position at his university, a traffic accident that nearly killed her, her retirement from the daily operation of her business, and the repeated nightmares. Never had she imagined that Phong lived so close by.

  The day her taxi had been hit by a container truck—the driver squashed beyond recognition, while she lost consciousness and found herself many hours later in an emergency room in a full-body cast—was the day she realized she’d been given a chance at redemption. She realized that if she could turn back time, perhaps she would raise Hoa and Phong herself. The rumors about the Communists’ punishments hadn’t been true, they didn’t burn those with permed hair nor chop off painted fingers. She knew no women who were imprisoned simply because of their sexual relations with Americans. Tiên, a woman from her bar, decided to raise her Amerasian child and they’d been left alone. It was true that some mothers were interrogated and sent to the New Economic Zones, and others were asked to report to their local police stations for months, but there were no mass executions.

  She had reached out to Thiên after the accident. He immediately organized the DNA test for her. Finding Phong had been a miracle, and afterward she’d traveled to Sài Gòn and taken Khôi out for dinner. At his favorite Japanese restaurant, she had told her second son the same story she’d told Phong. She was talking about Phong’s wife and kids when Khôi threw his serviette onto the table. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood up. “How can you tell me now that your life and mine have been based on lies?” he said, then walked out, leaving her with two full plates of sashimi and sushi that neither of them had touched. He stopped talking to her for many weeks. Now, even though he brought his family back home occasionally for a visit, he asked her not to mention Phong. He refused to meet his half brother, even during the New Year. A few months ago, he’d sent her a text: “I worked hard to help you with your business. I was there for you throughout the years. I traveled with you on many overseas trips and translated for you, remember? When it comes to inheritance, don’t forget that he is not entitled to anything!”

  Phong didn’t yet know about the text regarding inheritance. Khôi stood to inherit plenty of money, but Quỳnh knew now that she would be giving a share of it to Phong as well.

  Phong had visited Quỳnh several times at her house, together with his wife and children. She’d taken them to her shop, explained her business to them, and introduced them to her staff. She hosted a dinner for them, to which she invited her relatives, friends, and neighbors. Her story about Tim seemed to have amazed people, but they were more interested in Phong’s life, in his experiences at the reeducation camp, in what it was like to be an Amerasian. “Your story should be made into a movie or written into a book,” someone had said, and she could only laugh at that.

  Quỳnh was grateful that Phong seemed to have forgiven her. She’d wept when he called her Mother for the first time. It happened during their third meeting, her first time visiting his home. She’d brought along canvases, paints, and brushes, and spent the afternoon having fun with Tài and Diễm. They decided to paint Mun the dog, and the end result looked so much like a bear that Mun barked at the painting. As her grandchildren doubled over with laughter, Phong had leaned toward her, saying, “Cảm ơn Má.” He’d thanked her with not just his word, but also his smile.

  Phong had told her to give Khôi time, and that he didn’t want to cause any tension between his mother and his younger brother, but as months passed and Khôi continued to avoid him, Phong must have felt hurt and disappointed. He almost never expressed it to her, though, as if life had tested him enough to make him patient with its struggles. But how long would his patience last?

  “What have you been thinking, Grandma? Didn’t you hear my question about the DNA test?” Diễm nudged her.

  Quỳnh blinked. “Oh . . . I was just . . . recalling Mr. Dan’s last letter. When did he say he and Mrs. Linda are coming back?” She didn’t want to talk about DNA tests. Not to her grandchildren, who were too young to understand that the results of such tests may not just reveal family relations.

  “They’ll be back this September, Grandma,” Diễm said.

  “I wouldn’t mind listening to you read the letter again. You did such a great job translating it, young man.” Quỳnh patted Tài on his arm. Tài was taking an intensive English course and used Dan and Linda’s letters to practice his language skills. Hardworking and ambitious, Tài would graduate from high school in a year; he planned to study computer science at an international university in Hồ Chí Minh City.

  “Ah, I’m glad you asked, Grandma,” Tài said cheerfully, “because I improved my translation.” He got out of the mosquito net and Diễm switched on the light.

  As Quỳnh sat on the bed, her back leaning against the headrest, flanked by her grandchildren, she thought about the milestones of their lives that she had missed: their first words, their first steps, their first day at school. She wished she’d been there to pick them up when they fell down, dry their tears when they sorrowed, and double their laughter. She wished she’d been able to color their childhood with joyful memories, the way she’d done for Khôi’s children. She needed to do more to bring Khôi and Phong’s families together. She would go to Sài Gòn in a few days to talk to Khôi again.

  That afternoon, as she worked with Phong in the garden, she had watched butterflies fluttering on squash blossoms. In the pink rose apples and green guavas around her, she saw reasons to believe that Khôi would change, the way the flowers and the fruits were maturing in front of her eyes. Once Khôi got to know Phong, he would be proud of his half brother—a survivor, a man who overcame all odds.

  “Today I gave my teacher this new version of my translation, Grandma,” Tài showed Quỳnh his notebook. “He said I stayed true to Mr. Dan’s letter and managed to make it sound natural in Vietnamese.”

  “Your teachers are way too easy on you.” Diễm snatched the notebook from Tài’s hand. “Let me be the judge.” She started reading aloud.

  Dear Quỳnh, Phong, Bình, Diễm, and Tài,

  Can you believe it, that this is the first time I am writing with Vietnamese diacritics? Looking back, I am amazed at how I always stripped diacritical marks from Vietnamese names and words, to make things look and sound easier. Forgive me for the many times I misspelt your names! My Vietnamese teacher highlighted the importance of Vietnamese tonal marks to me. He pointed out that by writing Tài’s name as Tai, I called him “Ear” rather than “Talented.”

  Diễm clutched her belly, laughing out loud. She turned to Tài. “I’m going to call you Brother Ear from now on.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Tài narrowed his eyes.

  Diễm giggled. She turned back to the letter.

  Linda and I are making a big effort to learn Vietnamese because we’re returning this September. My sister will travel from Australia with her family and will join us in Hồ Chí Minh City. We are so excited and can’t wait for you to meet her.

  We still have a lot to do before the trip. We’ve been working with our psychologist, Dr. Hoh, to set up a charity to provide psychological support to people affected by the war and by Agent Orange. It’s Mr. Thiên who gave us the idea, helps us with the paperwork and he will be the manager of our operations in Việt Nam. Isn’t that amazing? We are grateful that our family and so many of our friends are joining hands with us.