A dreamlike beginning

My name is Thảo. At twenty-five, I walked into the wedding hall in a pure white gown, the hem sweeping gently across the tiled floor. The music rose brightly, filling the entire space. Khánh – the man I once believed to be my solid shoulder – held my hand tightly. I remember that feeling clearly: his hand warm, gripping firmly as if to say that I would always have him by my side for life.

In the moment we exchanged rings, he looked at me, his eyes sparkling. I believed, from that day on, I would be a happy woman. When our friends cheered “a hundred years of happiness,” I truly thought I had found heaven. But who could have known, beneath that white wedding dress lay a journey of unspeakable pain.

Days of humiliation

One year. Then two. My belly remained flat.

At first, my mother-in-law – Mrs. Dung – still seemed gentle, reminding me softly: “Take some supplements, take care of your health, maybe soon you’ll give me a grandchild to hold.”

I nodded, hiding my worry. But gradually, her eyes changed. Gentleness turned into disdain. At one dinner, she dropped a cold remark: “A woman who cannot give birth is nothing but a barren tree!”

I sat still, the rice stuck in my throat. My eyes brimmed with tears but none dared fall.

Another time, she lashed directly: “This family needs a grandson, not a useless daughter-in-law like you!”

Those words pierced like blades. I curled up in my room, hugging the wedding dress, staring at my flat stomach in the mirror. I whispered: “Am I truly a barren tree?”

I quietly went for a medical check. The results showed my reproductive health was perfectly normal. The doctor smiled reassuringly: “There’s nothing wrong, you can definitely conceive.”

I brought the results to Khánh, hoping he would agree to get checked as well. But he brushed it off: “Don’t try to pin this on me! If you can’t have children, then sign the papers. Don’t keep me trapped!”

I froze. The man I loved and trusted now stood cold as a stranger.

The day I left in the rain

The day I walked out of that house, rain poured down relentlessly.

I dragged a small suitcase, clothes drenched and clinging to my skin. My slippers slipped in the mud, I fell several times on the dirt road. Behind me, the house door slammed shut, like a cruel full stop.

I kept walking, rain mixing with tears, bitter on my lips. I didn’t know where I was headed, only that staying meant slowly dying inside.

In the pounding rain, I heard my own heart shattering into a thousand pieces.

A new life in the South

I moved to the South, starting over. A strange city, crowded streets, dazzling lights that almost blinded me. I threw myself into work, living in a tiny rented room. Many nights I sat by the window, watching the endless trails of headlights, recalling the cruel words of the past.

At work, some colleagues were kind, others whispered behind my back. One day I overheard: “Married but barren, no wonder he left her.”

I bit my lip, pretending not to hear. But inside, the wound bled again.

Then I met Minh. He was a medical resident at the hospital near my company. One day, I fainted from exhaustion, and Minh caught me. His eyes were warm, his voice gentle: “What did you do to push yourself this hard?”

From that day, we got to know each other. He never mocked me when I revealed my past. He didn’t judge when I confessed my failed marriage. He simply held my hand and said: “Even without children, it doesn’t matter. You are the one I want to spend my life with.”

Those words were light piercing through the night. I finally felt seen, loved – not for whether I could bear a child, but for who I truly was.

A miracle arrives

We married simply, just a few close friends, a bouquet hastily bought at the market. But in my heart, it was the most beautiful day.

Then one morning, when two red lines appeared on the pregnancy test, I trembled so hard I nearly dropped it. Tears streamed down, a mix of joy and fear. I went for an ultrasound. In the bright, sterile room, the rhythmic sound of a fetal heartbeat filled the air. The doctor smiled: “Twins. Congratulations.”

I burst into tears. Minh gripped my hand, his eyes shining, his voice trembling: “My God, you’ve given me the greatest gift.”

When our babies were born, their cries tore apart the darkness in my heart. I held them close, kissed their tiny foreheads that smelled of milk. I was not useless. I had only been waiting for the right person to give life.

The fateful call

Five years later. My twins were running, laughing around our little house. One afternoon, the phone rang. A relative’s shaky voice told me: “Mrs. Dung… she’s dying, and she wants to see you.”

I froze. My chest ached. Bitter memories flooded back. I wanted to hang up, but my hand trembled. Despite the hatred, I couldn’t erase it all. After all, she was once the person I called “mother.”

I decided to take my sons – the very grandsons she had once craved – to see her.

The moment by the hospital bed

The hospital reeked of disinfectant, everything white. Mrs. Dung lay frail, eyes shut tight. I stepped closer and softly said: “Mother, I’m here.”

Her eyelids quivered, opening slowly. Her clouded gaze wavered: “Thảo?”

I nodded, then pulled my sons closer. They politely greeted: “Hello, Grandma!”

At that instant, her eyes shifted: suspicion, recognition, then brightening with tears. She reached out with her rough, trembling hands to touch their faces.

“These… are…?”

I answered calmly, though waves surged inside: “Your grandsons. You once said I couldn’t bear children. But Heaven blessed me with two.”

She broke down crying, whispering: “My child… I was wrong… I was so wrong…”

Truth exposed

At that moment, Khánh walked in. He froze, staring at me with the children. His voice cracked into a roar: “How… how could you have kids?”

I looked straight at him, my heart pounding. I had once thought of keeping silent to preserve his pride. But with my children standing there, I couldn’t let the truth remain buried.

My words cut like a blade: “Because I was never infertile. The one with the problem… was you.”

He turned pale, eyes wide, lips trembling. I knew that was a mortal strike to his pride. But the truth had to be spoken.

A belated apology

Mrs. Dung clutched my hand, her voice breaking: “Thảo… forgive me… I was wrong…”

Her breath grew labored, ragged. The monitor’s beeping stretched into a long tone. Her hand, cold and frail, still clung desperately to mine. A final tear slid down her cheek, and her eyes closed.

Khánh collapsed to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably. His cries echoed through the room. But it was too late.

As for me, I was no longer the weak daughter-in-law of the past. I rose, took my sons’ hands, and walked out, leaving the past behind.

Happiness is the answer

In the corridor, the golden light of sunset spilled down. My children ran, laughing, their shadows stretching long across the floor. I breathed deeply, feeling their tiny hands grip mine tightly.

I realized, the sweetest revenge isn’t hatred or anger, but living happier than anyone who once scorned you.

I smiled, kissed the sun-scented hair of my boys. And I knew, the past was closed. In that light, a new family had been born.