When I woke up, my head ached terribly. Lang Băm was sitting against the bed, his eyes closed, breathing steadily. I clutched the thin blanket around me, my mind in turmoil.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Our night together was amazing. You were quite... wild."
Hearing his words, my entire body went numb. I leaned against the wall, holding my head, dazed like a lifeless doll. A fresh stain of crimson blood remained on the white sheets. And then, the images began to flood back.
Last night, I had clung to him, stripped bare of clothing. I hadn’t been forced—I had thrown myself at him, consumed by an insatiable hunger. My hands had greedily explored his body, my lips never ceasing their desperate moans. I had craved him so much that if he had refused me, I might have begged him on my knees. I had obeyed his every command, kissed him fervently, trailing my lips down his neck and chest like a beast. There had been no pain, only an overwhelming pleasure, a fire coursing through my veins, making me feel as if I could float.
I despised myself. This body felt filthy, disgusting.
I climbed out of bed, dressed, and wandered aimlessly. It had happened. I wasn’t a victim—I had indulged in it, reveled in it.
Lang Băm gave me a lazy smile.
"If you want, I’ll take responsibility. We’ll have a grand wedding. No need to take the morning-after pill—it wouldn’t work anyway. You’ve been unconscious for three days."
Despair weighed down on me. If this was the price I had to pay, was it not too steep?
"Even if I’m pregnant, I won’t marry you."
As I stepped outside, I saw Biến Thái standing by the door, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Was he here to kill me?
From inside the room, Lang Băm’s voice rang out, firm and resolute:
"If you kill her, you’ll be killing your own nephew or niece as well."
Surprisingly, I no longer felt any fear. My mind was empty. My body had already given up. Biến Thái didn’t even look at me as he stepped into the room.
Everything had come to an end...
One morning, I woke up to the sweet voice of a little boy calling for his mother. It had been five years since I became a single mother. I didn’t have the courage to stay in Vietnam, afraid of judgment, so I built a life in the U.S. By day, I worked as a programmer; occasionally, I performed as a singer at Paris by Night. Sometimes, he would come to watch me sing. Sometimes, he would fly across the ocean to visit our son.
They both still cared about me, but I knew I couldn’t tie them down. They had their own lives, their own families. I couldn’t let them bear the shame of raising a child that wasn’t truly theirs. Besides, we were adults now—mature enough to face pain without breaking, strong enough to endure wounds without spiraling into despair. The days of being torn apart by love were long gone.
I stayed in touch with Duyên and invited her to perform with me. She played the piano while I sang. As the melody of Dreaming of the Old Town filled the hall, the entire audience fell silent. Some even wiped their eyes. Every exile understands the aching love for their homeland. Only after leaving Vietnam did I begin to grasp what he must have felt while living abroad. Life wasn’t always a rosy dream.
That night, I made a bold request: to sing another song with Duyên—not in Vietnamese, but in French. Je T’aime by Lorie.
When he was studying in France, and I was still in Vietnam, I had listened to that song over and over, memorizing every lyric—even though I didn’t speak a word of French. I had once dreamed of singing it for him.
From the audience, he sat in the shadows, his face unreadable. I had no idea what he was feeling at that moment.
Once, all three of us had been deeply wounded.
But now, everything was just a distant past…
My life wasn’t miserable. My beautiful son was my greatest joy. His father visited him often and, from time to time, asked me to marry him. He adored our child. I had caught him many times, simply watching our son sleep, lost in thought. Seeing him play with our child, I couldn’t bring myself to sever their bond—it would have been the cruelest thing to do.
The pain and resentment had long faded. Any mother would understand—her child becomes her entire world. Love between men and women no longer held the same illusions, the same expectations.
He was a good father. Perhaps I should marry him.
He would sometimes take time off to visit us in the U.S., whisking us away on trips.
Lying on the grass, I stretched out my hand to catch the sunlight. These delicate fingers had worked tirelessly to care for a child for five years. So many sweet moments, and just as many bitter ones.
The sunlight was warm. And so were the arms that wrapped around me.