Grandma

About this story

My grandmother has tiny bound feet, and every step she takes she sways as if about to fall. My husband, Chu Thư Ngôn, looks down on her and says she is a leftover from an old era who will hinder his path to promotion. Only later did I discover that after decades of marriage, every week Chu Thư Ngôn’s regular overtime was spent with his first love from his youth—his “white moonlight”—singing and playing music, brewing wine and tea. Meanwhile I stayed home caring for my bedridden mother-in-law, managing the household, and raising our child, day after day, year after year. I want a divorce. My son advises me that I am old and should not make trouble; my mother tells me to live out the rest of my life muddled through. Only my grandmother took out a faded tin box from her bedside cabinet, filled with military merit medals. “Good granddaughter, Grandma will get justice for you.”