I sat on the sofa, watching the clock strike seven in the evening. The kitchen was filled with laughter and chatter. The whole family was excitedly preparing to celebrate my son Dung’s birthday, who had just been promoted.

My daughter-in-law, Thao, was busy choosing her dress, while my little nephew ran around the house laughing. The scene was so warm that it made me feel a little sad. It had been a long time since I had seen the whole family so happy.

I smiled gently and asked:

“Mom, I’m changed. Can we go now?”

Dung looked up and forced a smile:

“Ah… Mom, the car is full, and the restaurant is crowded. Let me take you there separately another day.”

The words were gentle, but like a knife piercing my heart.

I paused, trying to keep a smile:

“Well, the car is full. You can stay home.”

Dung quickly added:

“I’m sorry mom, I’ll definitely be there next time.”

I nodded, watching them chatter away as they walked out the door. Their laughter faded away, leaving only the ticking of the clock in the spacious house.

I sat down, my eyes tearing up. Not from anger, but from  the feeling of being left behind.

Two years ago, after my husband passed away, I moved in with Dung and his wife. I thought I would have a peaceful old age with my children and grandchildren. But then, the words like “Mom, don’t clean up the dishes in the kitchen that I haven’t washed yet”, or “Don’t buy things for the baby, I’m afraid it will be a bad taste”, kept coming more and more.

Every time like that, I just kept quiet. I was afraid of bothering, of making my daughter-in-law uncomfortable, of making Dung embarrassed.

But today, when I heard ” The car is full, stay home, Mom! “, I suddenly felt like I had been crossed off the list of relatives a long time ago.

When the door closed, I stood up.
I quietly opened the closet and pulled out the old suitcase – the one I used to bring to my husband’s house in 1985. I folded each set of clothes and put them away neatly.

On the altar, my husband’s photo looked at me reproachfully, but also sympathetically.

“Sir, I think I should go. I feel redundant here.”

I left a note on the table:

“Honey, I’m going out to the countryside for a few days. Don’t worry.”

Then pulled the suitcase, left that house in the night.

I returned to the small house in the countryside where I was born. The smell of kitchen smoke and the smell of the fields made me feel like I was alive again. The neighbor saw me and was surprised:

“Miss Lan is back? I thought you were with your son?”
I smiled:
“He’s busy, I’ll go back to look after the garden for a few days.”

No one knows that I don’t plan to come back.

I started a new life: growing vegetables, raising chickens, selling shrimp paste, and babysitting for families in the neighborhood. Life was simple but full of laughter.

Every night, I sit listening to the radio, occasionally thinking of my son, daughter-in-law, and little grandchild. I miss their voices, miss the meals we had together, but I dare not call. I am afraid to hear that indifferent voice again.

Three months later, on a rainy afternoon, I heard a car stop in front of the gate. The door opened and Dung rushed in, his face pale.

“Mom! Oh my god, you’re still alive!”

I was surprised:

“Live? What do you mean?”

Dung burst into tears and knelt down:

“For the past three months, I have been looking for you everywhere! That day… when my family and I came home from dinner… the house was on fire, Mom!”

I was stunned.

“On fire…?”

Dung nodded, tears streaming down his face:

“The fire started in the kitchen due to an electrical short circuit. I thought my mother was in the house… they only found a slipper and an empty suitcase. I thought… my mother was… dead.”

I was stunned. My whole body was cold.
Thao came over, hugged me, and cried:

“Mom, all this time I have been tormented. I was wrong… I shouldn’t have left you at home that day… If you had stayed, maybe…”

I trembled as I touched my daughter-in-law’s hair and sighed softly:

“If I had stayed that day, I might have been lying in the ashes. You see, everything happens for a reason.”

My whole family sat together in the small house in the countryside. Dung bowed his head:

“Mom, I’m sorry. I was so busy with work and taking care of my family that I forgot that you’re the one who needs to be loved the most.”

I smiled gently:

“Son, I never blamed you. But I want you to understand: when a mother starts packing to leave, it means a part of her has died.”

Dung held my hand, choked:

“From now on, Mom, come live with me, okay? The house is newly built and very big. There is still room in my car for you forever.”

I looked at him, tears rolling down, nodded slightly.

Three months later, my family moved back to the countryside and rebuilt a new house on the old foundation. I replanted the vegetable beds and my grandchildren chattered around the garden.

One day, Dung laughed:

“Mom, I’m going to make a sign for the vegetable garden. Name it.”
I smiled:
“Let’s call it  A Place for Mom to Sit , okay?”

The whole family was silent. Then they burst out laughing through tears.

Ending:
Sometimes, just one careless word is enough to make a mother feel lost in her own home. But maternal love – like an underground stream – even if buried, still flows silently forever.
The moment I pulled my suitcase out that day, I thought I had lost everything. But it turned out,  at that moment, I saved my whole family.