For ten years I raised my son without a father. The whole village sneered at me until one day, black luxury cars pulled up outside my shack, and what followed made even the cruelest people weep.

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, …