Chapter 7 - CHAPTER 7: THE DAYS I WAS DRAGGED OUT OF MY CHILDHOOD

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I was fourteen when I realized that some things don't last, no matter how tightly you try to hold on.

That year, my mother's illness grew worse.

Not the kind of pain that comes and goes on its own, but the kind that forced her to sit still for a long time, clutching her chest, sweat soaking her forehead. Some nights, I woke up to the sound of her muffled moans coming from her room.

I would stand outside the door, not daring to go in right away.

I was afraid that if I stepped inside, I would see just how weak she had become. And I didn't know what to do with that kind of weakness.

She started going to the hospital more often.

My stepfather grew openly irritated. His words were no longer just hints.

"Where's the money to keep going like this?"

"Sick all the time and can't do anything."

My mother didn't argue.

I stayed silent.

I began taking on more chores around the house—cooking, washing clothes, cleaning. I did everything quickly, neatly, as if doing better might somehow fix everything.

But it didn't.

One afternoon, my mother called me into her room.

She sat on the bed, her hands trembling. Medical files lay on the table. She looked at me for a long time—so long that fear crept into my chest.

"Vy," she called.

I stood straight.

"I'm very tired," she said, her voice soft but heavy.

I didn't respond. I waited.

"Can you… stop going to school?"

My ears rang.

I thought I had misheard.

"I can still go," I said quickly.

"I'll do all the housework. I can take care of myself, I can earn money. Please let me keep studying. I won't be a burden."

Her eyes turned red.

"That's not the reason," she said.

"I need you close."

I don't know how long I stood there.

Not because I was angry, but because I couldn't bear the feeling of being dragged away from the only path I believed could save me.

My stepfather stood at the doorway.

"So what now?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

He continued,

"Why does a girl need so much education anyway?"

I looked up at him.

For the first time in my life, I wanted to hit back—not out of pain, but out of rage.

But I didn't.

I clenched my teeth.

I didn't leave.

I didn't beg to stay.

I simply existed.

Not long after, my mother made me go with her to another place. My youngest aunt had returned from China. My mother said I had to come along. She didn't ask for my opinion.

I packed very little—an old backpack, a few sets of clothes, a notebook.

On the day we left, I stood in front of the house for a long time.

I don't know how long I would be gone.

I only knew that from that moment on, I was no longer a child who could turn back.

The new place felt unfamiliar.

I had no friends. No school. I stayed beside my mother, taking care of her. I learned how to prepare her medicine, how to remember the hours, how to read her face to know when the pain was coming.

Some nights, she held my hand tightly.

"If one day I'm gone…" she said.

I cut her off.

"Don't say that."

She fell silent.

I felt myself growing up day by day—but not in the way I wanted.

I thought more. Slept less.

Two years passed more peacefully than before, just the two of us. After those two years, we returned home.

From then on, I no longer counted time by calendars.

I counted it by how often my mother clutched her chest.

By how many pills remained in the bottle.

By the nights I sat awake against the wall, listening to her heavy breathing.

She weakened quickly.

Not the kind you notice all at once, but the kind that slowly hollows out everyone around her. Each morning she woke a little later. Each meal she ate a little less. By the time I realized it, she no longer had the strength to pretend everything was fine.

My stepfather grew more irritable.

He never hit me.

But every word felt like he was pushing me out of the house.

"A grown girl who doesn't study should at least know her place."

"If you live here, work properly. Don't let others feed you."

"So a mother raising her own child is 'not knowing her place'?" I said.

He fell silent.

I told myself: as long as my mother was alive, as long as she still needed me, I could endure anything.

One night, her pain was unbearable.

She doubled over on the bed, clutching my shirt. Her nails dug into my skin, burning, but I didn't pull away.

"Vy…" she whispered.

"I'm… so tired…"

My hands shook.

I called my stepfather. He stood at the door, looked inside, then sighed.

"If we go to the hospital, where's the money?" he said.

I turned to him.

For the first time, I wasn't afraid of his gaze.

"I'll borrow it," I said.

"Anywhere."

He didn't answer.

In the end, I was the one who ran everywhere, begging, bowing my head. I don't remember how many times I said please. I only remember the numbness when I saw her being pushed into the emergency room.

That night, I sat in the hospital hallway.

People passed by, each with someone beside them.

I didn't have that. I had only myself, and a vague terror that if my mother didn't survive, I would have nothing left.

She lived.

But everything changed after that.

She never mentioned me returning to school again.

Neither did I.

We both understood—the door had closed.

During those days, I saw those children more often. My uncle came by frequently to help us.

The little girl had grown used to me. She didn't need to see me—just hearing my footsteps was enough for her to run over. She hugged me tightly, burying her face into my clothes, as if letting go would make me disappear.

"Don't leave," she said softly.

I froze.

I had never promised to stay.

But she spoke as if she already knew—I was always the one who left.

The two boys were still quiet. They didn't ask where I went, or why I no longer went to school. But they watched more closely now. When I carried heavy things, one of them would step in to help. When the girl clung too tightly to me, the other would stand nearby, as if afraid someone might pull her away.

I looked at them, and something strange rose in my chest.

Not familiarity.

Not closeness.

But a painful sense of belonging.

One afternoon, I sat with the girl on the steps. She leaned her head on my shoulder, holding my hand tightly.

"Will you abandon me one day?" she asked.

I didn't answer right away.

I thought of my grandmother.

Of my mother.

Of how I was always the one left behind.

"I won't," I said quietly.

"I won't abandon you."

She said nothing more—only hugged me tighter.

That night, I returned home late to get more things for my mother.

My stepfather looked me up and down.

"Where have you been so late?" he asked.

"At the hospital," I replied.

He was silent for a moment, then said something I would never forget.

"You've stayed here this long… but one day, you'll have to leave."

I looked at him.

"I'm not leaving," I said clearly.

"Don't forget—this is my home too."

Not because I loved this house.

But because I refused to be pushed away again.

That night, I didn't sleep.

I leaned against the wall, thinking about everything weighing on my shoulders. I was barely in my teens, yet I felt unbearably old.

I knew that sooner or later, I would have to leave.

Not because I wanted to—but because I had no choice.

And somewhere deep in my heart, the image of that little girl—along with the two quiet boys—became a fragile anchor.

I didn't yet know who they truly were.

Didn't know what connection bound us.

But I knew one thing clearly:

If one day I became strong enough to stand on my own,

I would come back to protect them.

That was the first promise I ever made to my future.

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