Mrs. Mui was born in a poor village where children grew up surrounded by cracked rice fields and dilapidated houses. Her childhood days were spent running to the fields in the early mornings, her hands covered in dirt, and nights spent under the dim light of an oil lamp. She never dreamed of a life of luxury, but deep down she longed to escape her poverty. When her mother discussed a matchmaking with a man from the city, she hesitated, both anxious and excited. “Are you ready to leave your hometown and enter another world?” her mother asked, her voice trembling with concern for her daughter’s future.

The day she moved to the city, everything was unfamiliar: wide roads, high-rise buildings, bright lights every night. When she met her husband, she realized that she was just a “replacement” for his failed marriage. Feelings of inferiority and disappointment filled her heart, but her husband’s gentle smile gradually calmed her down. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” he said, his warm voice making her feel strangely reassured. Mrs. Mui decided to be patient, telling herself that she had to try her best to fulfill her role in this new family.

As time passed, she gave birth to a son and a daughter, and the joy multiplied in the small but warm house. For the first time, she felt the cheerful laughter of children, the feeling of being loved and needed. Every night, she hugged her children, her eyes filled with tears of happiness. Her husband also changed, often caring and asking, sharing the joys and sorrows of the day. Those moments gradually erased the feeling that she was just a “replacement” of the past.

But the happiness did not last forever. Her husband fell seriously ill, his body getting weaker and weaker, making the whole family suffocate in fear. She stood by his bedside, holding his hand, her heart aching. “Mui… I have to take care of this… I can’t let the children know…” he whispered, his voice weak but full of determination. She understood what her husband meant: more than 2.8 billion of his life savings had to be kept secret, so that she could use it for her old age.

He passed away after a long night, leaving the room empty, the pain in her heart endless. She sat alone, her hands trembling as she touched the stack of papers and money, feeling empty and lonely. Her husband’s words echoed in her head, but a part of her wanted to reassure her children. “They would be happy to know that I have some reserves,” she thought, and then decided to tell them all the money.

The next day, her son came to her with the excuse of needing to buy a spacious house for his small family. “Mom, I only need 1.1 billion, please help me,” he said, his eyes sparkling as if begging. She hesitated, then smiled and agreed, her heart fluttering and feeling happy at the same time. Before she could breathe a sigh of relief, her daughter texted: “Mom, I need to change my car, only about 350 million, please help me.” Mrs. Mui nodded, thinking to herself, she only wanted her children to be happy and safe.

But the demands did not stop there. Just a few weeks later, her son wanted to expand his business, and her daughter wanted to buy more luxury items. Mrs. Mui tried to control herself, telling herself that money was just a means to her children’s happiness. Every time she gave money, she looked at her children and saw gratitude and joy in their eyes. Her heart softened, believing that her sacrifices were worth it.

As time went on, her money gradually ran out, and her children’s treatment of her changed. At first, they took good care of her, cleaning the house, cooking, and asking about her meals. But when the money was almost gone, the phone calls to check in became less frequent, and their words became short and cold. She felt the distance, her heart heavy with sadness. Sometimes, she sat alone, looking out the window, wondering: “Did I do something wrong?”

Then one day, she became seriously ill and needed urgent surgery. She called her son, her voice trembling: “Son, I want to come back to live with you, take care of me for a while…” Her son shook his head, citing that he was busy with work and couldn’t pick her up. She turned to her daughter, her voice choked: “Son, I need you guys right now…” Her daughter was silent for a moment and then said: “Mom, it would be more convenient for you to go to a nursing home, it wouldn’t cost you anything.” Mrs. Mui was speechless, every piece of her heart was suffocated by the indifference of her own children.

During the days lying on the sickbed, she remembered all the words her husband had told her before he passed away. “In old age, you must maintain economic independence, do not depend on your children…” Those words now really resonated, echoing like a costly and painful lesson. She looked at her children through the glass door, saw their indifferent eyes, no longer caring as before, and realized that the biggest mistake of her life was revealing her savings.

She sat alone, clutching her hands, tears falling silently. She told herself that money was not love, and that trusting her children completely sometimes only brought disappointment. The loneliness weighed heavily, but she began to realize that she still had the strength to live, still had the value to take care of herself. “I have to stand on my own, whether there is anyone by my side or not,” she told herself, her voice trembling but determined.

In the following days, she learned to control her emotions, keep the remaining small amount of money, and take care of everything herself. She no longer ran after her children’s demands, but started spending on herself, buying small things she liked, eating delicious meals, and going for regular health checkups. She realized that financial independence was not just about money but also about freedom, about the mental strength to not be controlled by others. Her heart gradually calmed down, despite the loneliness that still crept in every night.

One morning, she sat in the yard, the sun shining through the trees, watching the neighborhood children playing. She suddenly smiled, remembering the days when she was young, when she dreamed of family happiness. She realized that happiness did not depend on money or the care of children, but on the ability to love yourself and keep peace in your heart. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, felt her heart still beating strongly, and told herself to live on, for herself.

Day by day, Mrs. Mui maintained an independent lifestyle. She went to the market, cooked, tended the garden, and occasionally met a few old friends in the village. Simple joys helped her forget her disappointment, and her heart gradually became peaceful. When she thought of her husband, she no longer felt as heartbroken as before, but felt grateful because he had taught her the greatest lesson in life: independence and self-confidence. She learned to give her own happiness, without asking or expecting anything from others, even her own children.

She also gradually understood that the love and care of her children did not always come with honesty or gratitude. She accepted this reality without resentment, considering it an inevitable part of life. Every time she looked at the remaining savings, she was no longer afraid or regretful, but saw it as her own achievement, a guarantee for a peaceful old age. Mrs. Mui told herself that even without her children by her side, she could still live a full life, still smile every day.

In the following years, Mrs. Mui’s health remained stable, she lived quietly but with dignity. She went to the market, chatted with neighbors, tended a small vegetable garden, and raised a few chickens. Things that seemed ordinary became great joys, because they reminded her that she was still capable of taking control of her life. When she thought of her husband, she sighed but smiled slightly, because she knew he always wanted her to be strong and independent. And above all, she learned a valuable lesson: old age is not the time to rely on others, but to live for yourself, with freedom and peace of mind.

Mrs. Mui still receives phone calls from her children from time to time, but now she is no longer as eager as before. She listens to them talk, sometimes happy, sometimes sad, but her heart is no longer shaken. Care does not always come from the person you love, but from taking care of yourself. She tells herself that she has learned how to love without expecting anything in return, how to live independently while still maintaining peace of mind. On weekend afternoons, she sits on a stone bench, watching the afternoon sun shine through the tiled roof, feeling peace seep into every cell, and smiles at her own life.