Nam is 25, while Huong – the woman he chose – is 44. She’s a university lecturer, widowed early, with a son studying in Canada. Their meeting was a fateful coincidence: Nam came to fix a printer for her school, and Huong politely thanked him and offered him a cup of coffee. After several conversations, Nam became captivated by the way Huong listened and spoke – slowly, each word like honey. She wasn’t as young and beautiful as the girls he’d known before, but her understanding eyes and warm, soothing voice made it impossible for him to leave her.

After six months, Nam proposed. Huong hesitated: “I’m still young, you’ve almost lived through your youth already.” But he held her hand, firmly saying, “You need someone who understands you, not a girl for show.”

The wedding was simple, unpretentious, with only a few dozen close friends and family members. Nam was happy, believing he had made the right choice. He hoped the wedding night would be the beginning of a warm and loving life together.

But that night, when the bedroom door closed, the atmosphere suddenly felt strange. Huong sat on the edge of the bed, silent. Nam gently approached, placing his hand on her shoulder, but Huong subtly recoiled, forcing a smile:
“I’m tired, let’s sleep.”

He was slightly surprised, thinking perhaps she was shy. But all night, Huong lay on her side with her back turned, her breathing even, strangely cold. Nam tossed and turned, trying not to think about it. “Maybe she really is tired,” he reassured himself.

Around 3 a.m., Nam woke up to the sound of the bathroom door opening softly. He saw Huong wearing a bathrobe, walking slowly. When the light from the bathroom shone out, he glanced after her – and then froze in shock.

In the mirror, Hương’s bare back was reflected – a network of long, crisscrossing scars running from her shoulder to her hip. She sat down, opened a drawer, and took out a tube of ointment and medical gauze. Her hands trembled, and her eyes held a sorrowful expression, as if hiding a deep pain.

Nam stood frozen. A series of questions flooded his mind: What were those wounds? What exactly happened in her past?

Little did he know, that very night marked the beginning of a series of haunting events, as he gradually discovered that his wife, 19 years his senior, was hiding a secret far bigger than he had ever imagined.

The next morning, Huong acted as if nothing had happened. She made coffee, set the table, and smiled gently as usual. Nam looked at her, still haunted by the images from the previous night – the long scars, the wrinkled skin, and the pained look in her eyes. He wanted to ask, but then stopped himself. There was something in her gaze that made him afraid of hurting her.

In the following days, Nam began to pay more attention. He noticed that Huong always showered very quickly and locked the door carefully. Whenever he got too close, she would subtly flinch. It wasn’t the shyness of a newlywed woman, but rather like someone hiding a fear.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Inside, Huong sat in front of the mirror, unbuttoning her shirt to apply ointment. Nam quietly stepped in. Huong jumped, turning around. For a moment, they looked at each other – without a word.

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Her voice was hoarse and trembling.
Nam nodded slightly. She sighed, tears streaming down her face:
“What do you think of a woman who was beaten almost to death by her husband?”

The words were like a knife. Nam was stunned. Huong recounted, her voice choked with emotion. She married in her early twenties to a wealthy but abusive husband. For over a decade, she lived in fear, enduring and concealing her suffering until the day he, drunk, attacked her with a knife. She was lucky to escape death thanks to neighbors who saved her, but she was left with dozens of scars and a haunting trauma that lasted for many years.

“After he died in an accident, she thought she could finally find peace… but every time someone touches her, she feels pain. Not physical pain, but pain in her heart.”

Nam remained silent, his hands clenched. He didn’t know what to say. How could he blame a woman like her – so strong yet so wounded?
He gently took her hand:
“You don’t need to try to forget. I’ll be with you.”

Huong cried. For the first time, she rested her head on his shoulder. From that day on, Nam loved Huong even more. He was patient, not pressuring her, not asking any more questions. He just stayed by her side, cooking meals, making tea, telling jokes – hoping she would open up.

But he didn’t know that some wounds weren’t just on his skin or in his memory. Another secret – more painful, more real – was still waiting for him ahead.

One weekend afternoon, Nam was tidying up his wardrobe. In an old drawer, he found a small, carefully locked wooden box. The lock was simple, so he curiously opened it. Inside were a few yellowed photographs and a notebook.

He flipped through the photos: there was Huong when she was young, standing next to a man in a suit, his face strangely familiar. In the last photo, that man had his arm around a boy of about 7 years old – who looked remarkably like Nam.

His heart pounded. He opened the notebook. The first page read: “If one day you learn the truth, please forgive your mother…”

Nam flipped through the pages – each trembling line recounting: Years ago, when Huong was teaching in a distant province, she had an affair with a married man. When she gave birth to the child – Nam – she had to send him to a friend who was infertile, concealing his identity to avoid scandal. Later, the friend died in an accident, and Nam was adopted. Huong silently continued to support him financially without his knowledge.

When Nam grew up and met her again in the guise of “a strange woman,” Huong didn’t recognize her son immediately – until he mentioned his adoptive father’s name, and their birth years matched. When she realized what had happened, she panicked, intending to distance herself, but found herself drawn into his feelings – feelings that were both painful and wrong.

The whole world seemed to collapse before Nam’s eyes. He slumped to the floor, tears welling up. When Huong entered and saw the notebook in his hand, she only sighed softly before collapsing to the floor.
“I’m sorry… Mom is sorry, son.”

There were no more words. The room was suffocatingly silent.

A few months later, Nam left the city, abandoning his small house and the woman who had once been his whole world – his mother. Huong moved elsewhere, living quietly, and was no longer seen by anyone.

Every year in July – their wedding month – Nam still sends a bouquet of white flowers to the same address. It’s unnamed, just a small card:
“I’ve forgiven you, Mom. Please don’t cry anymore.”

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