Page 43 of A Banh Mi for Two
“I could never hate Mom.”
“I know, con,” Dad sighs. “But I understand if you’re angry that you didn’t know. When you’re young, you can’t help but resent them for not telling you. I know I did with Ông N?i.”
“But you still love Ông N?i.”
“Of course. It’s a very, very hard thing that he did, becoming a refugee. And though he didn’t talk much about Vi?t Nam and our relationship wasn’t the best, I’m still thankful that he loved me so much that he risked everything to give me a chance at survival. But love is so complicated, con. I knew he loved me, and I knew how important it was to be grateful—that he did everything for me. Still, I wanted to know about my mom and our country so badly.”
I hadn’t ever thought about Dad’s relationship with Ông N?i and how he, too, has always felt all these complicated feelings about wanting to be grateful but also wanting to know so much more that guilt eats you alive. “How do you do it? How do you understand when the people you want answers from refuse to talk?”
Dad shakes his head. “I didn’t. Con oi, sometimes, certain scars run too deep… and trying too hard to understand will just hurt the person you love.”
“So I can never know? I should just… not pry and be a good daughter?”
Dad is silent, and I know it’s because he understands what I’m trying to say. That for all my life, all I’ve ever wanted was for Mom to tell me about Vi?t Nam.
“I don’t know, con. I didn’t try, but… maybe you can.”
I let his words and their implications linger between us over the phone. “Do you think she’ll ever be ready?”
“Just remember, con, that at the end of the day, Mom and a lot of people just wanted hope. And that meant they had to leave home behind.”
Chapter Twenty-OneLAN
Plates of ?c, gà chiên nu?ng m?m, water spinach with garlic, and a huge pot of l?u thái spread across the dinner table. Grabbing the mortar and pestle, I grind more chilies into crushed red pepper paste for the fish sauce. Most important rule in every Vietnamese meal: Always have fish sauce nearby. Má, out in the garden, is tying silk lanterns onto our mango tree, her face glowing in their light. It’s the T?t Trung Thu in Vi?t Nam, and my heart aches for Ba.
“You look happy,” Má comments. “Did something good happen?”
“Oh, um.” I hesitate. “I made a friend recently, and we’ve been trying a lot of street food together. We went to Ch? B?n Thành and are going to Bác Tu?n’s com t?m restaurant.”
“Good,” Má says, relief in her eyes. “I’m glad you made a friend. You should be hanging out with people your age. Not with an old lady like me.”
I wipe my hands before picking at the sleeves of my áo dài—it’s a tradition both Má and I do every Trung Thu, wear our favorite áo dàis, have a meal and mooncakes together, and maybe light a lantern or two in our backyard.
“You’re not old, Má. But you shouldn’t be working so hard, either.”
She waves her hand at me. “I should be the one to take care of us, and you should be out having fun, living your life.”
I put down the mortar and pestle, unsure of what to make of Má’s comments. I’ve always been taught that children should protect and take care of their parents, that we have an obligation to be there for the people who raised and fed us. Sure, some may say these are ridiculous Vietnamese filial piety expectations, but I believe in it—or at least I’ve convinced myself to—because in my case, Má only has me.
If not me, then who?
“I just don’t want you to waste your youth, Lan,” Má says.
I want to tell her that she shouldn’t be wasting her youth, either, but deep down, I feel… happy to be going on street food dates with Vivi. Even just seeing her smile changes the monotonous pattern of what my days used to be like.
My phone lights up and I peek at the text, a blush forming across my cheeks immediately.
Vivi: Are you free? Cindy and I are thinking of going somewhere for Trung Thu.
“Did your friend text you?” Má asks, already plating the water spinach into her own bowl.
The usual excuses are clogged in my throat. I want to believe that it’s okay to choose something for myself without feeling guilty.
“She’s asking if… I can join her for Trung Thu.”
“Go,” Má says. “You should be out with a lantern in Chinatown watching the lion dancing! I’ll be fine by myself—I already have the medicine here next to me, okay?”
I nod and get up, and she ushers me out the door. I fumble with my áo dài as I situate myself on the motorbike. Má hands me my helmet, fastening the clip for me.
