I didn't remember her full name, only that people called her Aunt Gia Hân.
When she saw me, she frowned."What are you standing there for? Off to buy groceries again, huh?"
I nodded.
She clicked her tongue, then pulled a warm white bun and a crumpled five-thousand note from her pocket.
"Poor thing. Take this and eat something. And stop staring at me like that — try to be a decent person, you hear? Don't grow up like your mother, all torn apart inside and out, can't even take care of her own kid. Be someone, at least."
Her voice was rough and sharp, but for some reason, it felt… warm.I bowed my head and took the bun, my hands gripping the heat as if afraid it would fade.
She turned away, hung up the laundry again, muttering curses at a cat that had climbed into the washbasin. But I knew — behind that prickly voice was the kindest heart I'd ever met.
I bit into the bun. The dough was dry, the meat inside cold, the taste salty — I couldn't tell if it came from soy sauce or the morning mist.
On my way to the market, I saw him again.
He was sitting in the same spot — by the mossy wall next to an old repair shop, the same dented tin can in front of him, a few silver coins clinking inside.
He looked up when he saw me. His eyes were just as still as yesterday, except now there were dark circles under them, the kind you get from too many sleepless nights.
I hesitated, then without thinking, took out the half-eaten bun from my bag and held it out.
"I only had a little. It's still warm — here, take it."
He looked at me for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't need it."
"Then why are you sitting here since morning?" I asked softly.
He pressed his lips together, eyes darting away."My mom made me. Said if I don't bring money home, she'll beat me again tonight."
I said nothing, just moved the bun closer to him. He stared at it for a long while before finally taking it and biting a small piece.
The wind blew past us, carrying a faint smell of wood smoke from somewhere nearby. We sat in silence, listening to the slow creak of a bicycle passing.
"I should probably introduce myself," I said. "I'm Mai An. My mom works at a nightclub."
He turned to me, not surprised, just nodded slightly."I'm Ngô Nhật Nam."
He stayed quiet, playing with the edge of the paper wrapping. I noticed his worn-out clothes, the sun-darkened skin, the oil-stained fingernails.
"Do you live with your family?" I asked, hesitant, afraid to touch a sore place.
He gave a faint, tired smile — one far too old for his face."Yeah. My parents and a little sister, she's three. But honestly, I can't remember the last time we had dinner together."
I fell silent. The only sound was the squeak of a bike chain somewhere down the street.
He went on, his tone flat, like he was reading a page that had been folded too many times."My dad used to drive a cyclo. Strong guy, back in the day. Went all the way to West Lake every morning, came home with a few bills. Now the bike's broken, and all he brings home is a bottle. He spends his nights drinking at the corner shop, yelling at everyone."
He paused, then added quietly,"My mom used to sew. Said she wanted to save up, open her own tailor shop. But lately, she hasn't worked much. Just goes out, comes back with new clothes, lipstick, perfume… says it's 'business.'"
My hands clenched in my lap.
He kept talking, not bitter, just tired."I used to think she was working like everyone else. But the other night, I saw her with a man. He gave her money. She smiled. I was standing behind a tree, watching. I didn't even know what to feel."
He looked up, eyes distant."I wanted to tell my dad, but he was drunk. Threw a bottle at the wall — shattered. I didn't dare say another word."
After a moment, he turned to me, his mouth curved into a half-smile that wasn't really a smile."What about you?"
I froze. My throat tightened. The wind brushed past, sweeping my hair across my face. It took me a while to answer.
"I only have my mom. She's a bar hostess. I don't even remember when she started."My voice softened, almost drifting away."Sometimes I wake up at night and hear her crying in the bathroom — makeup running down her face, hair a mess, smelling like liquor."
He didn't interrupt.
"She once told me," I continued, "that I was the only mistake in her life she couldn't fix. I got used to it. I just… I'm scared that one day she'll really leave me behind."
Nam shifted closer. He didn't say much, just reached out and held my wrist gently. His hand was rough, but warm.
"You're not the mistake," he said quietly. "Sometimes it's the grown-ups who live wrong first."
End of Chapter 4.