Rebirth on the Homeward Train: The Story of An Nha Du

On the day of her divorce, the suitcase An Nha Du dragged was as light as the marriage she had just ended. Stepping out of the courthouse gate, she immediately booked a high-speed train ticket home on her old, nearly dead phone. In her wallet, there was only her ID card, a bank card with a meager balance, and a few crumpled receipts—all that remained of the years she had poured into being a wife in the Han family, the mother of young master Han Duy Khanh, the woman standing behind the brilliant shadow of Han Muc Chi, a shadow so vast that no one even remembered her real name: An Nha Du.

On her way to the station, Butler Ly called. His voice was as respectful as always: “Miss An, there are still a few things in your room that haven’t been moved.” She looked up at the lead-gray sky, her heart empty, and told him to throw everything away; she didn’t need it anymore. Butler Ly paused for a moment, then his voice dropped: “The young master is crying and asking for his mother, but I’m sure it won’t be long before he has a new one, the very person he always mentions.”

An Nha Du’s knuckles gripped the phone until they turned white. Han Duy Khanh was indeed very much like his father; even the woman the father and son loved was the same person. Years ago, she had agonized over why that person couldn’t be her. Now, all emotions had vanished. “If there’s no love, so be it. The world still turns without anyone. I’m the one who needs to stop and move on with life.”

The announcement for the train’s imminent departure sounded. She took a deep breath and said her final words to Butler Ly: “Send a message to Han Muc Chi, tell him not to worry. I will never appear before him again in this lifetime.” With that, she ended the call. She took out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash bin by the waiting bench. From that moment on, the sprawling city and the years of endured silence were completely unrelated to An Nha Du.

The train carriage was crowded but quiet. Next to her sat a little girl about her son’s age, with big, black, round eyes, watching her warily like a small, wounded animal. She used to love children, once feeling happy all day just for one of Han Duy Khanh’s smiles. But now, her heart felt like an abandoned, sealed-off house, caring for nothing.

The little girl sat very still, but the adult accompanying her was the complete opposite. Throughout the journey, she talked non-stop on the phone, her harsh, cursing voice echoing through the carriage, as if afraid others wouldn’t know she was discontented with life. An Nha Du resolutely put on her headphones, closed her eyes, and let the cheap music drown out the noise and the rising exhaustion.

She didn’t know how much time had passed when a very light tug gently pulled at her sleeve. An Nha Du opened her eyes and met the gaze of the little girl. The child’s lips were pressed together, her eyelashes trembled slightly, and her small face was pale but she tried to appear calm. In her eyes was a storm struggling to stay contained. She said her mother was gone. She couldn’t find her mother anymore and asked if An Nha Du could help. The row of three seats by the aisle originally held the mother, the child, and a middle-aged man. Now, only the little girl huddled there, the other two seats empty like a cruel, pre-written answer.

An Nha Du immediately pressed the call button for the attendant and railway security. After a hasty investigation, checking the camera and cross-referencing ticket information, they found that the woman accompanying the child had gotten off the train at a small intermediate station. In the last captured image, she was stepping off, cautiously looking back, seemingly afraid the child might follow and cling to her. In other words, this little girl had been abandoned by her own mother on a high-speed train speeding towards a place utterly unfamiliar to her.

The carriage immediately grew noisy. People whispered, some indignant at the mother’s callousness, others pitying the child. All these words were spoken right in front of the girl, as if she were an object incapable of hearing or understanding. But she just sat still in her seat, back ramrod straight, clutching the straps of her backpack, not crying, not causing a scene, not begging anyone. This unnatural composure was more unsettling than tears.

An Nha Du looked at that small face and suddenly saw her own reflection in the windowpane. Two people cast aside at two different times. One abandoned by her husband in the heavy rain that year, the other by her mother on a train today. What was the difference?

She remained silent for a long time, then handed her ID to the railway police, giving her old home address in Thanh Ha town and her newly registered phone number, stating that if a suitable relative for the child could not be found, they should hand the child over to her for temporary care. Thus, when the high-speed train reached its final destination, besides her phone, ID card, and bank card with a little money left, An Nha Du suddenly had a child gripping her skirt, refusing to let go.

She decided to return home and officially settle in her grandmother’s small, long-vacant house. She cleared the overgrown yard, replaced the broken tiles, planted a few vegetable beds on one side, and sowed some small flower bushes on the other. Her grandmother’s portrait, in a new frame, hung in the center of the wall opposite the door, so every time she opened it, she saw her grandmother’s gentle gaze looking down.

She asked the girl’s name, and the child just shook her head, saying people always called her “that one.” An Nha Du named her Lam An Nhien, meaning she hoped the girl would live a peaceful and carefree life. She then completed all the necessary procedures to register An Nhien’s residence in the town. The family register, which had only one lonely line with An Nha Du’s name, finally gained another small name beneath it.

An Nhien rarely smiled; her face was always serious. Whenever she looked at An Nha Du, her eyes were so intently focused that it made people look away. She was sensible to a degree that made An Nha Du both heartbroken and frustrated. At four, she knew how to fold blankets and wash dishes. On the days An Nha Du was bedridden with a high fever, An Nhien would drag a plastic stool to the stove, stand on her toes to light the fire, and cook thin rice porridge for her. The cooking smoke stung her eyes, but she did not shed a single tear. Seeing her tiny hands reddened by the heat, An Nha Du suddenly remembered her own son, Han Duy Khanh, who would be gifted an indoor ski slope if he merely mentioned wanting to ski. The distance between the two fates was like heaven and earth.

One time, An Nhien sat on the porch steps, her legs swinging, and abruptly asked why An Nha Du adopted her. She said she was nothing more than a burden, a troublesome child. An Nha Du sat down beside her, stroked her soft, slightly sun-dried hair, and said, “Because I was very lonely. If you agree to stay with me, my life will be less empty.” An Nhien looked at her for a long time, countless thoughts passing through her small eyes. Finally, she nodded emphatically and said she would stay with An Nha Du for the rest of her life. That promise was simpler than any eternal oath An Nha Du had ever heard, yet it made her heart tremble as if someone had gently pushed open a door that had been closed for years.

Day by day, time flowed like the water in the ditch behind the house. An Nha Du planted vegetables, grew flowers, and took on online translation and writing jobs to make a living. An Nhien went to kindergarten, then primary school, became class monitor, and then got her guardian called in for fighting.

The phone call with that news stunned her. In her memory, An Nhien was a child so well-behaved that she was almost aloof, with a composed temperament like an adult. She wouldn’t even deign to give other children a scornful look, let alone fight. Yet, today she had gotten into a fight in the schoolyard. An Nha Du rushed to the primary school at the end of the street. The early autumn wind carried the rustling smell of dried leaves. An Nhien’s homeroom teacher personally met her at the gate, sighing with a look of helplessness. The teacher said the child An Nhien fought with was a new transfer student who hadn’t even learned everyone’s names yet. An Nha Du only wanted to know one thing: why they fought. Hearing this, the teacher looked at her with a slightly odd expression, as if wanting to say something but hesitating. An Nha Du asked again, and the teacher slowly replied that the other child’s surname was Han, his name Han Duy Khanh.

The boy said An Nhien deliberately tried to steal his mother.

An Nha Du stumbled, nearly stopping in the middle of the hallway. The teacher continued, recounting that An Nhien had an old photo in her pencil case. The photo showed An Nha Du and the girl standing in front of the house filled with four-o’clock flowers. Han Duy Khanh saw the photo and immediately turned pale. The boy told the whole class that An Nhien was shameless and wanted to steal his mother. A cold, dry explosion rang in An Nha Du’s heart, like the sound of the train rushing over the tracks years ago, dragging along all the years she had been cast aside.

She said nothing more, just followed the teacher in silence to the office. As the door opened, filled with the mingled scent of chalk and paper, she saw two small figures sitting opposite each other. She realized that the debt she thought had ended in the divorce court had, in fact, only just begun. The teacher cleared her throat softly, as if reminding her to calm down.

Just then, someone in the hallway called out, “Is Han Duy Khanh’s father here?” An Nha Du stood at the office threshold. Instinctively, she glanced at the corner of the room and saw Lam An Nhien sitting properly at a small table, doing her homework. The fountain pen in her hand was held firmly, her lips pressed together, her expression strangely calm. Seeing that the girl was fine, An Nha Du’s heart relaxed a bit. At least she hadn’t been frightened into tears today.

Her gaze tilted slightly inward. The boy who had been struggling earlier, upon seeing her, seemed to have a button pressed. His tear-filled eyes immediately brightened. Han Duy Khanh almost lunged from his seat towards her, his short legs stumbling on the tile floor, shouting a joyful “Mom!”

She bent down, but not to hug him. Instead, she gently placed her hands on his small shoulders and pushed him away slightly, her voice calm but not soft. “Little friend, you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” She smiled, trying to keep herself from trembling, then looked up to meet the eyes of the man standing in the room.

Han Muc Chi was standing next to the teacher’s desk, his white shirt buttoned all the way up, his tie neatly adjusted. His eyes rested on her face for a few seconds, rippling briefly, but quickly returning to the stillness of a lake.

“Hello, Mr. Han,” she said. “I am Lam An Nhien’s mother.”

Han Duy Khanh cried more and more fiercely, sobbing and accusing, “I don’t want her! I only want you, Mom!” Each word was like a knife carving into the wall. Lam An Nhien clenched her pen, her knuckles white. An Nha Du knew the girl was upset, but she said nothing, just slightly bowed her head so her hair fell to hide her eyes.

Han Muc Chi watched her in silence, offering no explanation, no defense, and making no attempt to stop his son. He just stood there, as if none of this concerned him, but An Nha Du knew he was waiting for her reaction, waiting to see if she would make a scene, bow her head, or cry.

“An Nhien,” she walked over to the girl, her voice striving for gentleness. “I’ll help you pack your bag. Can you go home first today? Don’t worry, I’ll talk to the teacher about everything here.” An Nhien nodded decisively, not asking any further questions. She put on her backpack and walked straight out, her small back resolute, not looking back even once, just like the day An Nha Du dragged her suitcase out of the courthouse gate, only An Nhien was ten, and An Nha Du was thirty then.

As soon as An Nhien left, Han Duy Khanh’s expression changed. He quickly wiped his tears and ran to hug her legs tightly, his voice choked but his words now focused: “Mom, please don’t be angry with me! I know I was wrong, I won’t scold her anymore, just please come back home with me.”

An Nha Du bent down, gently stroking the boy’s soft hair, her heart both tender and hard. Then she looked up directly at Han Muc Chi. “Mr. Han, how about we find a private place to talk?“

They walked to the arbor in the garden behind the house. He leaned against the bougainvillea trellis, a look of weary sophistication about him. “Didn’t you say you wanted to talk to me privately? Just speak plainly.”

“I see there’s no other man by your side now. If you don’t mind, could you consider remarrying me?” Han Muc Chi said, his voice husky.

She looked at him in silence. He shifted his gaze, cleared his throat softly, and continued, “I just thought we should give our son a complete family. Duy Khanh’s temperament has changed a lot recently; he’s no longer as arrogant and unruly as before.”

“So, I ask, did you not marry Tu Kha Truc?” An Nha Du asked.

Han Muc Chi was taken aback, clearly not expecting such a question. “That’s all in the past.” He said, as if talking about someone else’s affairs.

“Yes, it’s all in the past,” she nodded, smiling. “You and her are the past, and you and I are also the past. But what about having a child together?” She looked straight at him, her voice barely a whisper. “Han Muc Chi, stop using others as an excuse. Before it was Tu Kha Truc, now it’s Han Duy Khanh.”

She once fooled herself, gathering every tiny clue—him remembering she couldn’t eat spicy food, him remembering her stomach would hurt if she ate too much—and piecing them together into something called love. But those minuscule “loves” weren’t enough to carry her forward. She looked straight at him. Was it really that hard to admit you once had feelings for me?

“It’s not late,” she gently exhaled. “It’s just that all those things are over. Han Muc Chi, turn your head and look ahead, don’t look back at me. I’m not standing there for you to see anymore.”

He raised a hand to cover his eye socket, his knuckles taut, his spine slightly hunched. She knew the magnitude of his pride. Seeing him so dejected didn’t bring her joy. So, she stood up, intending to quietly leave, giving him this quiet garden space.

But as she turned, her skirt was tightly grabbed. The pull was strong, stretching the fabric. She looked down and saw his knuckles white, his veins clearly visible. He had lost a lot of weight, carrying an unconcealed, bone-deep exhaustion. She heard the sounds of choked back tears, and saw his broad shoulders subtly trembling in the yellow light.

“Don’t come here anymore,” she said, her voice so calm that even she was surprised. “Go back to your life, and be sure to take Han Duy Khanh with you.” She bent down and gently unclasped his fingers from her skirt, then smoothed out the wrinkle, as if the incident was utterly insignificant.

“Oh, right, I forgot to tell you,” she slowly added, “my current birthday is the anniversary of my divorce from you. That day is also the day I found An Nhien.”

“The child doesn’t know her birth date, and it wasn’t recorded in her papers. I wanted to give her a new birthday, one untainted by anyone’s past. So, my daughter and I decided to take that day as our day of rebirth. Consider this an early birthday gift from you to me—a gift of peace, a life no longer shadowed by you. Han Muc Chi, thank you.”

This time, Han Muc Chi truly left, taking Han Duy Khanh with him. He said nothing, just walked with his head bowed, holding his son’s hand. But Duy Khanh understood, or at least vaguely guessed what was happening.

Before they left, the boy threw himself at her legs, hugging them tightly, refusing to let go. He cried terribly. His shrill, hoarse sobs, his face red from lack of oxygen, his small shoulders shaking violently, as if one more breath would cause him to collapse right before her eyes. “I won’t go! Dad, let go of me! I want Mom!” The boy struggled frantically, his hands tightly wrapped around her legs, his fingernails digging into her skirt. He looked up, his eyes red and swollen, his voice raw as he pleaded, “Mom, please don’t abandon me! I’ll be very good from now on, very obedient. I won’t make you sad anymore, please don’t chase me away!” Then he turned and hit Han Muc Chi hard, screaming through his tears, “Dad is a liar! You said Mom would forgive me! Liar! Bad guy! Move away, I want to stay with Mom!”

The car door slammed shut with a cold metallic clang. Through the glass, An Nha Du saw Han Duy Khanh convulsing with tears, his hands pounding the window relentlessly, his face pressed against the glass, his tear-streaked, pitiful eyes looking at her as if she were the last life raft. Han Muc Chi pulled the boy to the side, pushed him down, and sternly instructed the driver, “Go.” He didn’t look at An Nha Du again, never turning his head.

Lam An Nhien stood beside An Nha Du, her hand still gripping her backpack strap, her eyes calmly watching the car leave the small alley.

“They won’t come anymore, right?” An Nhien asked. “No, they won’t.” “Mom, are you sad?”

An Nha Du merely smiled, gently stroking An Nhien’s soft hair. “Little Nhien, everything will pass. Remember this clearly: no matter how painful a situation you face later, as long as you keep walking straight ahead without looking back, you will eventually get through it.”

She had walked very far ahead, but Han Muc Chi and the others seemed to be standing still in the same spot. It didn’t matter. They were never meant to be on the same path, so there was no need to stop for them.