Chapter 4 - The Cold Reality
As we walked down the stairs, carrying our bags and our sleeping baby, my mother was waiting in the hallway. Her bravado had cracked, replaced by a desperate, wheedling tone that was even more pathetic than her anger.
"Vinh, please," she said, stepping into our path and clasping her hands together. "Don't be so dramatic. We can talk about this. Families don't air their dirty laundry over a misunderstanding. I was just... I was trying to save for a rainy day. You know how unpredictable the economy is. If you leave like this, what will the neighbors say? They'll say your wife turned you against your own mother!"
I didn't stop walking. I didn't even look at her.
"The neighbors can say whatever they want, Mom," I said smoothly, pausing at the front door to check that Hue and Cuong were safely behind me. "Because starting tomorrow morning, the bank account that funds this house will be frozen."
My mother froze. Her mouth dropped open. "Frozen? What do you mean frozen? How are we going to pay the mortgage? How is Hoang going to pay for his car?"
"That's for you and Hoang to figure out," I replied. "Since you're such a master of financial management, and since you apparently have thirty thousand pesos stashed away every month in your personal savings account, I'm sure you can cover the bills all by yourselves."
Hoang came rushing down the stairs behind us, his face purple with rage. "Are you out of your mind, Vinh?! You're cutting off Mom? What about me? I have my classes! I have my life! You can't just abandon us!"
"I didn't abandon you, Hoang," I said, turning to face my brother for the last time. "I just stopped enabling you. Get a job. Learn what it feels like to earn fifty thousand pesos instead of stealing it from a nursing mother."
With that, I pushed open the front door.
The crisp morning air hit us instantly—clean, cold, and refreshing. We walked down the concrete pathway, leaving the oppressive, sour-smelling house behind us for good.
As I loaded our bags into the trunk of my car, my mother appeared on the front porch, screaming obscenities that echoed down the quiet suburban street. But I didn't care. For the first time in months, the heavy pressure in my chest was gone.
I opened the passenger door for Hue. She settled into the seat, holding little Cuong securely against her chest. As I slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine, she looked over at me, her eyes shimmering with a quiet, fragile peace.
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"Thank you, Vinh," she whispered.
I reached across the console and took her hand, pressing my thumb against her knuckles. "We're going to get you some real food," I promised. "And we're never looking back."
