Page 66 of A Banh Mi for Two
Mom is in Vi?t Nam.
Standing in front of the house.
She’s here.
“Mom?” I call out to her.
She whips her head back, and I prepare myself for anger—for Mom to yell at me and say that I’m awful and that she doesn’t want me to come back with her and that—
Strong arms envelop me, pulling me into her embrace.
My voice cracks, releasing something high-pitched and a mixture between I’m sorry and I missed you. Mom doesn’t speak at all. She just wraps me in her arms tightly and buries her head in the crook of my neck. She feels so small. All my anger and hurt dissipate and my arms find their way to her small, fragile back.
“Mommy nh? con r?t nhi?u,” she says, her voice squeaking as if she’s been crying for a while.
I nod and hug her tighter. She smells like California, like a house that’s overflowing with too much junk because my parents love to hoard. She smells like home. “I’ve missed you, too, Mom.”
She releases me and touches my cheeks, studying every part of my face. “Con healthy and well. Mommy has been so worried.”
I swallow. “Why are you outside?”
She sighs, her eyes looking at the house with sadness, and I realize that, like me, Mom probably feels scared—like she doesn’t belong there anymore. “I… don’t know how to face our family. I’m scared. Scared to see their faces when they look at me. Scared to know what they think of me.”
I grab her hand, nudging us toward the door. “Mom, I’m here for you. This time, you’re not alone.”
She nods.
I knock, hearing muffled voices from the other side. Someone is shushing someone else. I knock again; this time the door clicks open, and Aunt Hi?n’s face comes into view.
I swallow. My throat is dry. I can feel Mom shaking, her grasp loosening as she takes in her sister’s face.
“Hoa? Is that really you?” Aunt Hi?n gapes at us, her eyes misty.
Mom lets go of my hand and runs toward Aunt Hi?n, colliding into her sister’s body as muffled sobs fill the air. “Chi Hi?n. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Hoa,” Aunt Hi?n cries. “I can’t believe you’re home. I can’t believe you’re back.”
“I should have come back sooner. I should have been here for you when Má got sick. I did all that I could—all the money and medicine I can send—except actually be there for you.”
Aunt Hi?n shakes her head. “What matters is that you’re here now. You’re home.”
As Mom and I stand outside Bà Ngo?i’s room, hand in hand, I think about how I never believed this moment would come—that one day, Mom and I would be in Vi?t Nam, visiting our family together. That one day, Mom would come back because of me.
Mom wipes her palm against her shirt, her shoulders visibly shaking.
“It’ll be okay, Mom. I’m here.”
We enter the dim room; the only sound is Bà Ngo?i’s breathing.
“Ma? I’m home,” Mom whispers, her voice hoarse.
“Hoa oi, are you home?” Bà Ngo?i calls out weakly. “Is that my Hoa? Did Hoa come back to me?”
Mom walks over to Bà Ngo?i, still shaken, but her shoulders are higher, and she doesn’t look as scared. “Ma, I’m sorry I just came back now. I’m sorry I… left you. I’m sorry I took so long.”
Bà Ngo?i chokes back a cry, her hand reaching for Mom. “Con, you don’t have to say sorry. You don’t have to say anything at all.”
Mom sits next to Bà Ngo?i’s bed and holds her hand tightly, Bà Ngo?i’s chest rising up and down as she drifts off to sleep.
