Page 58 of A Banh Mi for Two
You’re not Hoa. My heart drops at her apology and how naturally she says Hoa—how that name has always felt important to her. It’s a strange thing to be mistaken for Mom, especially when I’ve always seen us as two different people, leading two different lives. But here, in Sài Gòn, our lives intersect, and suddenly I can imagine the younger version of Mom right next to me, hugging the sister she left.
I fish for my wallet, my heart pounding. Placing the photo in her hand, I repeat the phrase I had Lan help me memorize and practice aloud. “Cô có bi?t nh?ng ngu?i này không?”
The question that I’ve been asking ever since I got to Vi?t Nam: Do you know who these people are? And somehow, after all the markets and street food stalls and motorbike rides, I’m here. I’m standing in front of my aunt. The family I never knew about.
She continues staring at the photo, not saying a word. “Who… How you get this?” She switches to English, sensing my American accent coming through. “Hoa… con gái c?a Hoa?”
I swallow, meeting her gaze. “Yes, I’m Hoa’s daughter.”
She takes a step forward and looks closely at my face. “You look like Hoa.”
Not knowing what to do, I just stare into her eyes. They are wide, with creasing at the top of her eyelids, while her eyebrows are sparse and thin. Just like Mom’s. “Con, do you want to come with me?” she asks in Vietnamese.
I look at Lan nervously, but she motions for me to go ahead with my aunt. “It’ll be okay. You got this,” she says.
I nod. “Thanks for bringing me here. And thanks for everything you’ve done for me up until now.”
“I’ll pick you up?”
I nod, my heart swelling with warmth for her. Despite all the anxieties and hurt, she’s been the one constant for me all throughout Sài Gòn. “Yeah.”
Aunt Hi?n leads me into a small alley diagonal to the fruit stand, her hand on my back as we walk. It reminds me of Mom, and the way she’d do the same when we’d walk side by side in the Vietnamese grocery store in Little Saigon. Within seconds, Mom’s childhood home comes into view. It’s a two-story building tucked away in the heart of District 2, overlooking a quaint courtyard that contains a banana tree and an herb garden in a tub. There’s a balcony with a clothing rack, and the clothes on it sway softly in the wind. I can hear children laughing in the house. It shows signs of being lived in, of stories being exchanged, and of memories shared between families.
I have an odd feeling that I’m intruding. Like I don’t belong. Though we’re technically family, they’re strangers to me as much as I am to them. The inside of the house is decorated with colorful tiled patterns of flowers, wooden chairs and desks, a TV in the middle with children’s toys next to it, and straw mats on the floor. The space isn’t wide but long and tall, and the furniture is stacked to the side to make space for other things. I see several altars as I walk by, incense burning, and flowers placed next to them. There’s a staircase by the entrance, and I linger as Aunt Hi?n walks ahead, my eyes finding the puzzle pieces I’ve been looking for my entire life.
The walls are filled with photos of Mom. She is everywhere.
“Con,” Aunt Hi?n speaks again, and I look up to find her carrying a photo album in her arms. “Do you want to take a look?”
Mom. Pictures of Mom. Photos I hadn’t ever seen before, and it just hits me then that I’ve seen never Mom younger than my age. And as I sit here, my eyes glued to the roundness of her cheeks and how her eyes kiss in the corners just like mine, I’m unable to separate my own face from hers. It’s like staring into a mirror, but this time, it’s also a time portal. A key to unlocking Mom’s life in Sài Gòn.
I skim my fingers over each page, my thoughts a jumbled mess as I flip through the timeline of Mom’s life in front of me: Mom in Grandma’s arms as a baby, Mom taking her first steps as a toddler, Mom and Aunt Hi?n in front of this very house, Mom in a high school uniform, Mom and Grandma surrounded by Trung Thu lanterns. This entire trip, everything I have been doing, I’ve been following in Mom’s footsteps without knowing it.
A photo falls out of the album and surprise overtakes me when I see the faces in it: Mom and… a boy? They’re standing in front of an alley with street food stalls behind them, and I recognize her outfit from another photo I took from her drawer. The boy has a goofy smile, they’re standing next to each other under a hoa phu?ng tree with Mom in a white áo dài, and suddenly I can see it: Mom running through Sài Gòn with this same boy and him photographing her laugh.
I turn the page and find an empty spot in the album, right next to a photo of Mom and Aunt Hi?n in front of Ch? B?n Thành. I pull the photo I stole from Mom’s closet out of my pocket, the one of her, Aunt Hi?n, and Grandma in front of the same marketplace. All this time, Mom’s been holding on to her own memory of this very moment. This was when it had ended, the last time they all took a picture together, and the last photo of Mom in Sài Gòn.
I turn to Aunt Hi?n and ask the question that’s been burning in my throat. “Did you know about me?”
She looks at me sadly, and I already know the answer from her face. Still, the shaking of her head confirms it—and I don’t know which hurts more, the fact that Mom didn’t care to tell her family about me, or the fact that my family never knew I existed at all.
“But I knew when I saw you,” Aunt Hi?n says. “The moment I looked at you—I knew who you were. I just wish my sister told me, too.”
“Have you… kept in touch with her?”
“In a way, yes.”
Aunt Hi?n shuffles through a few envelopes before pulling out white, almost yellowing ones. They were sent by Mom, with our return address on the back. The contents of each is the same: statements of confirmation from banks. Mom’s been wiring them money since she’s been in California. There are no notes, no heartfelt letters. Only a single sentence:
Chi, I hope this is enough for you and Ma.
And as I go through the envelopes, I can see the amount of money increasing each month. The most recent statement was last month’s. All this time, I never knew.
None of this makes any sense. The money, the secrecy, Mom.
Somehow, I found everything but also nothing. It seems Mom has shut everyone out of her past and present. We were never meant to meet, and if it weren’t for this trip—if it weren’t for Lan—I still wouldn’t know my family existed.
“Hoa à? Con v? nhà à?” A weak voice floats through the emptiness, and my heart drops when I realize what the question meant. Someone in this house, someone who loves Mom, is asking for her—asking if she has come back.
