It was a hot day in the village.
I—Han—was squatting, gathering dry twigs to start a fire.
My ten-year-old son stood on the threshold, looking at me with innocent eyes.
“Mom, why don’t I have a dad like the others?”
I couldn’t answer. Ten years had passed, and I still hadn’t found the words for that question.
When I got pregnant, rumors spread through the whole village:
“Disgrace! Pregnant without a husband! Shame on her parents!”
I clenched my teeth and endured everything.
With my belly growing, I worked wherever I could: weeding grass, harvesting rice, washing dishes in a snack bar.
Some people dumped trash in front of my house; others talked loudly about me as I walked by:
“The father of her child definitely ran off… who would want to shoulder such a shameful burden?”
They didn’t know that the man I loved had been overjoyed when he learned I was expecting.
He said he would go home to speak with his parents and ask for their blessing to marry.
I believed him—with all my heart.
But the next day he vanished without a trace.
Since then I waited for him every day: no news, no letters.
Years went by. I raised my son alone.
There were nights when I hated him for the pain his father had left me with.
And there were times I cried and prayed that his father was alive… even if he had already forgotten about me.
To send my son to school, I worked without rest.
I saved every coin, swallowed every tear.
When other children mocked him for not having a father, I held him tight and said:
“You have a mother, my son. And that’s enough.”
But people’s words were like knives, stabbing my heart again and again.
At night, while he slept, I sat by the lamplight and remembered the one I loved—his smile, his warm eyes—and I wept in silence.
One rainy morning I was mending my son’s clothes when I heard engines roar.
The neighbors ran out into the street to look.
Several sleek black cars—clearly from the city—lined up in front of my modest house.
Whispers rose:
“My God! Whose cars are those? Each one is worth millions!”
With trembling hands I took my son by the hand and stepped outside.
An elderly man with gray hair in a black suit got out of one of the cars, tears in his eyes.
He looked at me and, without a word, fell to his knees right there in the mud.
I was stunned.
“Please, get up! What are you doing?” I exclaimed.
He took my hand. His voice shook:
“Ten years… At last I’ve found you—found you and my grandson.”
The whole village fell silent.
“Grandson?..” I whispered, barely audibly.
He took out an old photograph—the face of the man I had loved.
An exact likeness.
I couldn’t hold back my tears.
The old man told me that on the day I told his son about the pregnancy, his son had been immeasurably happy and hurried home to speak with his parents and plan the wedding.
But on his way back to me, he was in an accident… and died that very day.
All these ten years the father had searched for me without stopping.
Only recently, while going through old hospital records, he found my name and traveled through several provinces until he found us.
He glanced at the cars. One of the drivers stepped out and opened a door.
On the car’s side was an engraved logo: “Lâm Gia Group”—the largest corporation in the country.
People were stunned.
“My God… that boy is President Lam’s only grandson!” the neighbors whispered.
The old man walked up to my son, took his hand, and said through tears:
“From this day on, son, you will not suffer anymore. You are the blood and flesh of the Lam family.”
I just stood there, crying, and felt the weight of all those years begin to lift.
The eyes of those who had once despised me were now full of shame.
Some even dropped to their knees and asked my forgiveness.
As my son and I left the village, it started to rain again—just like ten years ago.
But this time I didn’t take it as a curse.
Now I know: even if the whole world rejects you—if you stay true to yourself and strong—the truth will come to light.
I—the mother everyone once humiliated—
now walk with my head held high,
holding my son’s hand,
and smiling with peace in my heart.