I had terminal stomach cancer. I died in my rented room. The last person to take care of my body was my stepmother—the woman who had cut ties with me long ago.
When she saw how emaciated I was, little more than skin and bones, she burst into tears:
“Why were you so stubborn? I gave you money to go to school, but you took it and ran off with someone, refusing to follow the path I’d arranged for you!”
“Yes, I’m your stepmother. But when have I ever mistreated you?”
I wanted to confront her—when had she ever treated me well? Why was she still pretending to be a good person now?
Wasn’t she the one who took the tuition money my birth mother had left me and forced me to work in a factory?
Then I saw my biological father exploit public opinion, using the media to attack the stepmother who had buried me.
He smeared her as selfish and cruel, manipulating public opinion until the pressure became too much for her. She fell into depression and died.
Meanwhile, my father and grandmother were stuffing their pockets with money, as if feasting on buns soaked in my blood.
“If we keep doing things this way, we’ll get the whole inheritance. Those two women won’t be able to hold out, and they’ll both die.
“Once that woman out there gives birth to a boy, you bring him home and keep using this trick. It won’t cost us a cent, and we’ll get another son for free.”
Only then did I finally understand—it had all been a calculated trap laid for us.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day my father had told me to quit school and go work in a factory.
…
“Sigh, Tử Di, your stepmother really is too much…”
“I’m a useless father. I can’t help you…”
In the living room, my father puffed through one cigarette after another, looking at me with guilt and self-reproach, like a father who had failed completely.
I lowered my eyes to the college acceptance letter in my hands, and at last it sank in—I’d come back.
Today was the day I received my acceptance letter from J University. I’d planned to share the good news with my father, but he doused my excitement with a bucket of cold water.
He told me to stop studying and go work in a factory.
When I didn’t say anything, my father gritted his teeth, dropped to his knees in front of me, and began slapping himself:
“I’m a useless father. I’ve let you down, but I really have no choice…”
“It took me so much effort to remarry. You know how much people look down on the old men in the village who don’t have wives…”
“I really want to live peacefully with your Aunt Thẩm. Please be a little accommodating toward her…”
In my previous life, my biological father had used these very same words to pin all the blame for forcing me to work on my stepmother.
He never mentioned the tuition money my stepmother had saved for me.
He drove a wedge between my stepmother and me, just waiting for the right moment to set things off.
To keep me from learning the truth, he wouldn’t let me come home during any of the holidays in the three years I worked.
Whenever I wanted to visit, he would say, sounding deeply troubled:
“Tử Di, your stepmother won’t let you come home. She says she’ll throw you out if you do.”
“It’s New Year’s, and the house will be full of relatives. Don’t make me lose face, okay?”
I wanted so badly to argue—wasn’t I his own flesh and blood? Why did some outsider’s words become law?
I was filled with resentment, but in the end I swallowed my longing for home and didn’t go back.
When I heard his decision, my father immediately put on a pained expression, then said the familiar words:
“I knew it. Tử Di is the most sensible girl.”
“It’s okay if you don’t come home for New Year’s. Keep an extra hundred for yourself this month and go have some fun. Send the rest to me, and I’ll buy your stepmother a gift.”
“Then next time, she’ll let you come home for New Year’s…”
I sent him more than half my monthly wages. Even pinching pennies, what was left barely covered my daily expenses, and that extra hundred was practically useless.
Before, I had truly believed my father, thinking everything was because my stepmother, Thẩm Hàn Sinh, had a cruel heart.
But I never imagined that not a cent of the money taken from me had gone to her. It had all ended up in my biological father’s pockets.
And yet I had hated her.
My father rubbed his hands together, hiding the greed in his eyes as he put on a troubled expression:
“Once you start working, send me money every month. I’ll save it toward your dowry, and whatever’s left over can go toward supporting your stepmother.”
“Once she sees how devoted you are, she won’t oppose you anymore.”
I pushed down the hatred in my heart and asked:
“What about me?”
“If I give it all to you, what am I supposed to live on each month?”
My father answered without a second thought:
“You’ll be living and eating at the factory. What does a girl need money for?”
Seeing that I looked upset, my grandmother nudged my father with her elbow, signaling him to change his tune.
He immediately backtracked:
“That’s not what I meant. I’m just worried you’ll spend too much.”
“How about this: you keep one-fifth, and send the rest to me. I’ll save it for you.”
I watched the little exchanges between the two of them, but didn’t call them out.
“I’ll think about it.”
He claimed he was saving the money for my dowry, but in reality, every cent went to support his mistress and illegitimate child.