Twenty years ago, the village market was bustling with buyers and sellers jostling each other step by step. Mrs. Hanh held her little son’s hand, telling him not to leave her side for even a step. However, in a moment of carelessness when she bent down to pay the fish seller, her little hand slipped away. The call of “my child” echoed loudly amid the noise of hundreds of people. She ran along the rows of stalls, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it was about to burst.

People saw a woman with disheveled hair and bare feet running around the market like a madwoman. Tears streaming down her face, she called her child’s name until her throat was hoarse, her voice trembling in the noise. “Has anyone seen the three-year-old boy in the blue shirt? My child is lost!” she cried, holding out the crumpled photo of her child in her hand. The crowd sympathized but only shook their heads. The more she ran, the more her legs buckled, despair rose to the point of suffocation.

After that day, her life took a dark turn that she had never imagined. Every day, she searched every corner, posting flyers with the child’s young face. She even went to the police, asked around the hospital, the train station, but the only response was a hopeless shake of the head. The only thing she remembered about her child was the long, curved scar on her left shoulder – a mark of a fall when she was a child. That was the fragile belief that made her tell herself: one day, she would recognize her child.

As time passed, her hair turned gray, her thin shoulders bent down from carrying a street stall. People were used to seeing her sitting in the corner of the market, carrying a simple sticky rice basket, smiling gently but her eyes always had a hint of sadness. At home, she only had four old walls and darkness surrounding her. Every night, she lit incense and whispered to an old photo: “My child, if you are still alive, please come back to me.” That hope was both fragile and persistent, never completely extinguished.

One rainy evening, the streets were deserted, and she was carrying her goods home. The sound of the engine roaring, the screeching of brakes, and the sound of a violent collision tore through the rain. People on the street screamed in panic, and a young man was thrown onto the street. She rushed over with everyone, her trembling hands supporting the blood-soaked body. “Quick, take me to the nearest hospital!” – someone’s voice rang out amid the chaos.

In the brightly lit emergency room, the doctor hurriedly cut off the victim’s blood-stained shirt. At that moment, Mrs. Hanh’s eyes suddenly froze. On the young man’s left shoulder was a long, curved scar, pale in color but terrifyingly clear. Her whole body trembled, her heart beat chaotically, her breathing hitched. She clutched the edge of her shirt tightly, her eyes glued to the scar as if afraid that if she blinked, it would disappear.

“Oh my god… my child!” – her voice broke out, choked with sobs. The nurse turned to look at her in surprise, and the doctor frowned slightly. She staggered forward, her trembling hands lightly touching the edge of the bed as if trying to hold onto the past. “That’s the scar… it’s it… my child, it’s my child!” Her tears mingled with the sound of the rain outside that was still falling non-stop.

When the young man woke up, his eyes were hazy and lost, looking around. Mrs. Hanh knelt down beside the bed, her trembling hand touching his. “My son, it’s me, do you still remember me?” – her voice was sobbing like a child. But the young man looked at her with a strange gaze, his lips trembling: “I’m sorry… who are you? I… I don’t remember anything.” Her heart felt like it was being squeezed, both hope and fear melted into a vague pain.

The young man’s foster family – Minh – rushed over. The middle-aged woman hugged him, crying and asking questions, calling him son. The man who was with her frowned and looked at Mrs. Hanh warily. “Who are you? Why are you calling my son your son?” – he said sternly. Mrs. Hanh trembled, her voice faltered: “No… that’s my son, lost twenty years ago… I remember this scar clearly… there’s no mistake!”

The air in the hospital room was thick, tense like a string about to snap. Minh lay there, his face pale, his eyes looking back and forth in confusion. He listened to Mrs. Hanh talk about the old market day, heard every detail about the scar, about the desperate call in the rain of memories. But in his mind there was only a blank space, the childhood memories had long since disappeared. “I… I don’t remember… but why does my heart ache so much?” – Minh whispered softly, his eyes red.

The adoptive family was shocked, both loving and afraid of losing their child. The woman choked up: “I raised him since he was a baby, taking care of him every meal and every sleep, he is my child.” Mrs. Hanh knelt down, sobbing: “I have been looking for him for twenty years, he is the only reason I live, please let me have my child back.” Each word was like a knife cutting into the heart. The whole room was filled with crying and heavy breathing.

To resolve the matter, the doctor advised both sides to do a DNA test. During the days of waiting, Mrs. Hanh was restless, tossing and turning every night watching the rain fall outside the porch. “What if I’m wrong? But no, that scar is proof, I can’t be wrong about you.” – she whispered to herself, her hands tightly gripping the worn-out scarf. Minh sat quietly by the window, his eyes empty, a nameless anxiety rising in his heart. He both loved the family that had raised him, and was haunted by the call “my child” from the strange woman.

The day she received the results, Mrs. Hanh’s hands were shaking so much that she couldn’t open the paper. The doctor read slowly, his voice firm: “The results confirm that Minh is Mrs. Hanh’s biological son.” The room fell silent for a moment, then burst into choked sobs. Mrs. Hanh hugged her son, her face covered in tears, her mouth repeating: “My son, I finally found you.” Minh stood still for a few seconds, then hugged her back, his emotions rising and making his chest ache.

The foster family shed tears, the woman covered her face and sobbed. “We knew this day would come sooner or later… but it still hurts so much.” – she choked. Minh held his foster mother’s hand, squeezing it tightly as a thank you: “You raised me to be a person, I will never forget this favor.” His eyes turned to look at Mrs. Hanh – his biological mother – a hesitant but warm gaze. His heart was divided in two, one side was the origin, the other side was the nurturing love.

In the days that followed, Minh lived in a constant state of anxiety. He often sat for hours in the hospital yard, looking up at the gray sky. “Who do I belong to? My biological mother or my adoptive mother? How can I make sure no one is heartbroken?” – he muttered, his hands crumpling the test results. Every time he saw Mrs. Hanh silently looking at him, her eyes longing and trembling, he felt his chest heavy. But when he returned home, seeing his adoptive mother diligently taking care of him, he felt even more heartbroken.

One night, Minh sat between his two mothers, his voice low: “I can’t choose just one. I owe my biological mother for giving me flesh and blood for her whole life, and my adoptive mother for raising me for more than twenty years. I will take care of my biological mother for the rest of my life, but I will never leave my adoptive parents.” The two women fell silent, tears streaming down their faces, neither of them able to say a word. Because deep down, they both knew that their love for him was true.

That afternoon, the sky was clear, the sunlight gently filtered through the yellow leaves. Minh led Mrs. Hanh along the old street, holding her hand tightly as if afraid that if she let go, they would lose each other again. As she walked, she asked tremblingly: “Do you regret accepting me?” Minh smiled softly, his eyes moist: “Even if the memories are lost, from now on I will make up for it. I can forget everything, but I will not let you be lonely anymore.”

Mrs. Hanh stopped, squeezed her son’s hand tightly, her voice choked: “You can forget, but I have never forgotten you, not even for a day.” Tears fell on her cheeks, shining in the gentle afternoon sunlight. Minh leaned his head on his mother’s shoulder, feeling the warmth that he thought had been lost forever. Amidst the crowd, the two figures embraced each other as if mending a twenty-year break. A new beginning opened up, both warm and filled with humanity.