Chapter 5: Home Is No Longer the Same
Linh stood at the gate of her house.
The tiled roof sagged. Moss crept across cracked walls.
Everything looked smaller than she remembered.
Except the silence—it had grown.
Inside, her mother sat on a wooden chair, thin like a shadow, gaze lost in the dust dancing in sunlight.
Her body didn't rise at first. But her eyes did.
"Linh… is that really you?"
Linh stepped forward. Nodded.
Her mother stood. Arms trembling. When they embraced, Linh felt ribs. And bones. And time.
She didn't cry. Neither did her mother.
But that hug…
was the first warmth she had felt since the night Mai pressed the cloth into her hand and said:
"Don't stop. No matter what happens behind you."
The news of her return spread faster than the monsoon wind.
"I heard she was sold to China."
"Did… that kind of work, right?"
"Probably came back with disease."
They didn't say it to her face.
They didn't need to.
Their eyes were loud enough.
At the market, people stepped half a pace away.
At the temple, no one offered her incense.
At the hair salon—where the owner once braided her pigtails—she heard:
"We're full today. Try another time."
But the seats were empty.
She left. Silently. Again.
Her younger brother didn't ask questions.
He just stopped bringing friends over.
Her mother tried to smile.
"They'll forget, child. Give them time."
But Linh knew better.
People don't forget what they never forgave.
One afternoon, her mother received a call from the women's union.
An invitation for aid. Small, but needed.
When they arrived, someone whispered,
"Wait… isn't her daughter one of those girls from… over there? Shouldn't they disqualify her?"
No one replied.
Not even the official in charge.
The air hung like smoke.
Her mother lowered her head.
Not from shame. But from exhaustion.
It was the first time Linh saw her mother break—
Not in the body.
But in the spirit.
That night, Linh sat in her childhood room.
The mattress was thin. The walls yellowed. But on her lap… was the embroidered cloth.
Edges frayed. Colors faded.
The "M" still there. Barely. But enough.
She lit incense. Bowed before her father's altar.
"I'm home," she whispered,
"but not the daughter you sent away."
She stared at the phone the shelter had given her.
Opened the note app.
Her fingers hovered. Hesitated. Then typed:
"I was sold.
I was silenced.
But I survived.
And I will speak."
Not for pity.
Not for forgiveness.
But for Mai.
For every woman who vanished while the world looked away.
This was not revenge.
This was testimony.
Her story would begin again.
Right here.
In the very place that once called her name—
And now looked away.