My childhood was a long, quiet, and dim series of days. I had no father, no mother, no blood relatives. My world then revolved around makeshift meals and the four monotonous walls of a small rented room. Growing up without a guiding hand, I learned to cope with everything on my own. The lack of affection created an invisible wall around my heart, making me close myself off and never dare to believe in the word “family”. Life went on like that, struggling and struggling until I met Mai. She brought me a whole new world, a place I had longed for for a long time.

Mai is a gentle, thoughtful, and sweet girl. When I am with her, I feel a warmth that I have never felt before in my life. Mai loves me with a simple, sincere love. She never asks about my past, just stays by my side and fills the void in my heart with care and concern. When we got married, I felt like I had found the whole world. Mai is not only my wife but also my life partner, the missing piece that makes my life complete. The day I held her hand and walked down the aisle, I silently promised to spend my whole life loving and protecting the woman who gave me a home.

After the wedding, we moved in with my mother-in-law. My father-in-law had passed away a long time ago, and her mother was a gentle, kind woman. She welcomed me with a bright smile and loving eyes. She had no son, and I knew that she had considered me her own flesh and blood from the very first moment. She held my hand, her thin, warm hands, and gently said: “You stay here, this is your home. I have no son, so I love you like my own flesh and blood. You don’t need to worry about anything.” Those words touched a deep corner of my heart. For the first time, an older woman called me “son” with all her sincerity. My tears rolled down, not because of sadness, but because of happiness. I had found a real home, a family that I had only thought existed in my dreams.

We lived with my mother, together we built everything from scratch. Mai worked as an accountant for a company near our house, I opened a small auto repair shop. Every day, we woke up together, had a simple breakfast, and went to work together. When we came home at night, my mother-in-law had prepared hot rice and sweet soup. The small house was always filled with laughter, peace, and happiness. A year later, Mai brought me a priceless gift: a beautiful daughter like an angel. She had big, round eyes that sparkled like stars at night, and a smile as bright as the morning sun. We named her Bo. Looking at Mai holding her in her arms, singing sweet lullabies, I thought that my life was finally complete, lacking nothing.

But life is not always full of roses. When Bo was just 2 years old, our fragile happiness was tested by a great shock.

Mai discovered she had ovarian cancer. The disease was in the late stages, with little hope left. We could not accept the harsh reality. I took her to all the major hospitals, from the South to the North, hoping for a small ray of hope. But Mai’s condition did not improve. She gradually weakened, became thinner, and her silky black hair gradually fell out. The most painful thing was the pain that tormented her every night. I could only silently hold my wife’s hand, watching her struggle, my heart aching.

And then, what I feared most came to pass. One moonlit night, Mai quietly passed away in my mother and I’s arms. She smiled one last time, a gentle smile like a farewell. Her warmth gradually faded away, leaving me with a vast, cold void. I collapsed completely. Having lost my beloved wife, I felt like my life had lost its meaning. But then, I saw Bo, our little daughter. She was still innocent, still laughing and joking. For her sake, I had to get up. I wiped away my tears, took a deep breath and told myself that I had to continue living, living for Mai, living so that she wouldn’t have to go through a lonely childhood like me.

My mother-in-law did not let me face that pain alone. She was my only support at that time. She told me to stay, so that she could help take care of my grandchild. She said that having children at home would make me feel better, and I could also go to work with peace of mind. She said that Mai had passed away, but she still had two children, one was me, the other was Bo. My heart warmed. I agreed. Every morning, I went to work, she stayed home to take care of Bo, taking care of her every meal and sleep. At night, I helped my mother-in-law cook and clean the house. Life went on quietly, slowly but full of love. Bo grew up under the protection of her grandmother and father. She was still carefree and innocent, not knowing that she had lost a mother.

Three years have passed. The pain in me has gradually subsided, but Mai’s image is always present in my heart. Every night, when Bo has fallen asleep, I sit quietly in front of my wife’s altar, look at her portrait, and whisper to her about what happened during the day. I still feel guilty about myself, I could not keep Mai. And I still cannot open my heart to anyone else. My mother-in-law understands that. She always looks at me with eyes that are both sympathetic and worried. She knows I need a companion, someone to accompany me through the rest of my journey.

One night, after I had just put Bo to sleep, my mother-in-law called me out to talk privately. In the soft yellow light of the living room, she looked at me for a long time and then spoke, her voice warm and full of love: “My child, I have been meaning to talk to you about this for a long time. Mai has been gone for 3 years, the dead are gone, the living must continue to live and must live well, my child.” She paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. “You should remarry so you have someone to keep you company so you won’t be lonely, so Bo can have a mother. I think Ngoc is a good fit for you, why don’t you try to get closer to her? She is beautiful and kind, and takes care of Bo just like her own mother.”

My mother-in-law’s proposal stunned me. Ngoc was no stranger. She was Mai’s younger sister, even though they were not blood related. Ngoc was adopted by my mother-in-law when she was still in diapers, and from childhood to adulthood, the two sisters were always close and loved each other. The year Mai died was also the year Ngoc graduated from university. She gave up a good job opportunity in the city, returned to her hometown to work to be near her mother and me. For the past three years, Ngoc has always lived in the same house with us, always treated me and Bo very well. She silently shouldered all the housework, was always gentle, and was always there when I was most tired. She has become an indispensable part of my father and I’s life.

To be honest, after living together for three years, I began to have strange feelings for Ngoc. I tried to control myself, but my heart still fluttered every time I saw her smile, saw her gently holding baby Bo, saw her sitting quietly sewing my worn-out shirt. It was no longer the love between a brother-in-law and his wife’s sister, but the love of a man for a woman. And I knew, it seemed like she did too. The glances quickly averted when accidentally touching each other, the hesitant touches of hands when doing housework together, the silences that lasted longer than usual. Everything showed that we were crossing an invisible boundary.

But my mind still struggled. After all, she was my wife’s sister, even though she was not blood related. How could I cross that line, how could I forget Mai? Mai’s image still appeared in my mind every night. Her portrait was still on the altar, still looking at me with gentle eyes. I was afraid, afraid that I was betraying her. I was afraid that I did not deserve to be happy again. I did not answer my mother that day. I just bowed my head, kept silent, and then walked back to my room. That night, I could not sleep. I asked myself, was I doing something wrong? Could I face Mai, my own conscience?

In the following days, I began to look at Ngoc with different eyes, not as a brother-in-law, but as a man slowly emerging from the darkness. I no longer avoided my own feelings. Instead, I allowed myself to open up, giving Ngoc and I a chance to truly get to know each other, for the first time, as two independent people, not bound by the past or titles. I began to actively talk to her more. We talked about everything, from the little things in life to big dreams. Ngoc told me about her unfinished dreams from college, about her dream of becoming a literature teacher. I told her about the worries I had hidden for so many years, about my fear of living alone.

No rush, no strings attached. We walked gently together like that. We didn’t say the words “I love you”, but love grew in each of our hearts, silently and persistently. Everything was so natural, like two small streams merging into a big river. Emotions overcame reason, and I realized that I deserved to be happy. Bo also loved Ngoc very much, she often called her “Mom Ngoc”. I knew that she had occupied an important place in her heart. And then, one day, when we were together taking care of the small garden behind the house, I mustered up all my courage, held her hand and proposed. Ngoc didn’t cry, didn’t say anything, just smiled gently and nodded. Her smile was exactly like Mai’s, gentle, warm and full of tolerance.

We held a small, unpretentious wedding, with only family and a few close friends. Neighbors and friends came to congratulate us. No one criticized or gossiped. Perhaps because they understood that I had gone through too much loss and Ngoc, that little girl, had waited and sacrificed more than anyone else. On the wedding day, I stood next to her, looking at her in her pure white wedding dress, my heart was filled with a strange feeling. Happiness mixed with emotion. Finally, I had found a peaceful place to rest. My mother-in-law also cried, but they were tears of happiness. She held my hand and Ngoc’s, whispering: “Now I can rest assured.”

On the wedding night, when there were only two people left in the room, in the soft yellow light, Ngoc sat leaning on my lap. She looked at me, her eyes sparkling as if she wanted to say something. She gathered all her courage and said: “Do you know? Actually, before Mai passed away, she asked me to take care of you and Bo, and even suggested that I become your next life partner. She said that if it were another woman, Bo would not be treated well. I was very worried, and I thought that request was difficult to understand, even unreasonable.” Her tears rolled down. “But over time, I gradually fell in love with you and considered Bo as my own child. Now, I not only married you because of that promise, but also because of true feelings, hoping to walk with you and the child on the road ahead, together for life.”

I said nothing. I just silently held her in my arms, tightly. In the quiet darkness, in her arms, I felt the warmth of understanding, of slow but lasting love. Ngoc was not a replacement for Mai, but a gentle, timely and tolerant continuation. She came to soothe my heartache, to write a new chapter of life with me. A new chapter that was not noisy but more complete, warmer. There, there was her, there was the child and there was love nurtured from loss. I know, Mai will smile in heaven, because now, I have truly found happiness, and my daughter has a new mother, who loves her with all her heart.

I have experienced too much loss. But it is that loss that has taught me to appreciate what I have. I no longer live in the past, but have walked on the path of the present, with the woman I love and my little daughter. Every morning, I wake up, see Ngoc preparing breakfast, see little Bo playing innocently, I feel strangely peaceful. I know, life has smiled at me once again. And I will never let go.