The afternoon heat pressed down on our small village, turning the dirt road into dry, crackling dust. I, Hanh, was crouched in the yard behind our hut, gathering dried twigs for the cooking fire. My hands were rough and burned from years of work.
At the doorway, my ten-year-old son, Minh, stood watching me. He had his father’s eyes—curious, deep, and full of questions I had no answers for.
“Mom,” he asked softly, “why don’t I have a father like the other kids?”
The question pierced me like a blade. For ten years, I’d waited for that moment, rehearsing explanations that never seemed right. I forced a smile and said, “Come help me gather these branches.”
He squatted beside me. “Duc’s father came to school today. Lan’s dad brought her a new backpack. So where’s mine?”
I swallowed hard. “Your father loved you very much,” I said quietly. “But he …
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