Mrs. Hoa is over sixty, living alone in an old house right next to a small rice shop on the national highway. People used to call her “the rice lady” because every morning she was seen stooping down, carrying a hot tray of rice to guests from afar. For decades, she had been attached to a pot of rice, a pan of fish, and a bowl of simple soup to sustain herself and find some comfort. She was thin, her hair was streaked with gray, her deep eyes always had a sadness that no one knew about. Guests often complimented her on the delicious food, but she just smiled and quietly turned away.

Few people know that in her heart, there is a pain greater than poverty. She once had a son, only five years old, who was lost in the crowded night market. That day, it suddenly rained, people were jostling, the boy’s call of “Mom” was lost in the crowd and then disappeared. Mrs. Hoa frantically ran everywhere, crying until her voice was hoarse looking for her son, but that little figure was nowhere to be found. That loss was like a knife cutting through her life.

As the days passed, Mrs. Hoa printed her son’s photos and sent them everywhere, but all in vain. Her gentle husband, after many years of searching, also fell into despair and left the country. She stayed behind, embracing her pain, surviving by selling a small restaurant. On rainy nights, she sat on the porch, watching the rainwater flow and imagining her son standing bewildered in the market, calling “Mom” in a trembling voice. That obsession followed her until old age.

In recent years, her restaurant mainly serves workers and long-distance drivers. Customers come and go, strangers and acquaintances, everyone appreciates the kindness of the rice vendor. She is not rich, but has never let anyone go hungry. Occasionally, when someone is stranded and has no money, she is willing to feed them, just saying: “Eat the food at home, eat as much as you have.” Perhaps thanks to that, the small restaurant is still warm with human affection.

One late afternoon, when the guests had left, Mrs. Hoa was clearing the table when a young man walked in. He looked thin, his clothes were worn out, his sandals were worn out. His shy eyes stopped at the rice pot, then he hesitantly said: “Miss… can I have some rice… I don’t have any money yet, I’ll pay you back when I go to work tomorrow…” His voice was trembling, both embarrassed and earnest.

Mrs. Hoa looked up and looked closely at the young man. His face was tanned, his cheeks were slightly sunken, his eyes were clear but hidden with fatigue. In her many years of trading, she had met many people who swindled or pretended to be poor to beg for food. But with him, her heart suddenly ached as if an invisible string was gently pulling. She scooped a bowl of rice, added some soup, picked up a few pieces of meat and handed it to him.

“Eat, son. Eat as much as we have at home, don’t worry about money.” She said with a hoarse voice, as if it was stuck in her throat. The young man thanked her profusely, bowed his head, sat down, and ate heartily as if it had been a long time since he had a proper meal. The sound of the spoon hitting the bowl was lively, and his eyes lit up with each bite. Mrs. Hoa sat watching, an indescribable feeling rising in her heart.

While eating, he slowly told the story. “Since I was little, I didn’t know who my biological parents were… I only vaguely remember that I seemed to have gotten lost somewhere. Then I was taken in by someone, wandering around working for a living. I never had a real family meal. Sometimes I just wish someone would call me son.” His voice choked up, his hands trembling as he clenched his chopsticks.

Hearing this, the chopsticks in Mrs. Hoa’s hand stopped, her hand trembled. A current ran through her heart, making her sit there, stunned. She swallowed hard, then asked with a trembling voice: “So… how old are you this year?” He looked up, surprised, and replied: “Yes, twenty-five.” Her heart pounded, her eyes blurred with tears.

“When is… your birthday?” – she continued to ask, her voice trembling like a gust of wind. “The seventh day of the sixth lunar month… but actually I only heard it from people, I’m not sure.” Mrs. Hoa stiffened. That was the birthday of her lost son. Her whole body trembled, her hands gripped the corner of the table as if she was afraid of collapsing. Old memories echoed in her head.

She tried to take a breath, her voice choked: “Child… on your arm… is there a scar?” The young man looked confused, then rolled up his sleeve. On his left arm was a long, small scar, curved like a crescent moon. It was the same scar that had appeared when he fell and hit the edge of the table when he was three years old, and she had hugged him and cried all night. Her heart felt as if someone was squeezing it, her eyes blurred with tears.

The bowl of rice in her hand fell to the ground and broke, the rice flying everywhere. She trembled as she walked over, hugged the young man, and sobbed: “My son… Are you my son Tung? Oh my God, I’ve been looking for you for so many years… I thought I would never see you again…” Her voice choked, her trembling hands tightly hugging his thin shoulders.

The young man was stunned, his chopsticks fell to the table with a clatter. He couldn’t believe what was happening, his eyes wide open as he looked at the thin woman holding him. A strange feeling suddenly arose in his heart, as if an invisible string was pulling from deep within. Vague memories suddenly emerged: a soft lullaby in the rainy night, a warm hand leading him through the market. He choked up and whispered: “Mom… is she really… my mother?”

Mrs. Hoa hugged her son tighter, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. “Yes, it’s me… My child is here…” Her voice was both trembling and joyful, as if bursting out after decades of waiting. The young man sat there stunned, then unconsciously put down his chopsticks and wrapped his arms around her. In that moment, all distance and doubt disappeared, leaving only the sacred mother-child bond. The whole small restaurant was immersed in emotion.

The news spread quickly throughout the small neighborhood. Everyone was surprised to learn that the rice vendor’s lost child had returned. People came to congratulate her, tears welling up in their eyes, praising her strange fate. The once lonely rice vendor now had a young man helping her, calling her “Mom” with a sacred voice. That call filled the small house with laughter.

On rainy nights, Mrs. Hoa no longer sat alone on the porch reminiscing. Next to her was Tung, drinking a cup of hot tea, listening to her tell stories of the past. Mother and son made up for each other with warm meals and simple stories of everyday life. The pain that seemed irreparable was gradually soothed. Her old heart felt at peace for the first time in decades.

Mrs. Hoa often held her son’s hand, her hands rough but full of love. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you that year…” – she choked. Tung shook his head, his eyes red: “It’s not your fault… I’m the one at fault for making you suffer for so many years.” Those words made her burst into tears, but they were tears of happiness. The hug between mother and son became a support for the rest of her life.

And so, the small restaurant by the highway not only had delicious food and sweet soup, but also had a touching story of reunion. Passersby stopped by to eat, and seeing the mother and child chatting, all smiled with emotion. The rainy night that year had taken her child away, but strange fate had brought him back, right where she had been patiently waiting. That belated happiness became the greatest gift of Mrs. Hoa’s life. The emptiness of decades had finally been filled.