“Don't you know? A mother's love
neglects pride
the way fire
neglects the cries
of what it burns.”
— Ocean Vuong, Headfirst
I was 10 years old when Mẹ told me, “A mother is blamed for her child’s mistakes but a father is celebrated for his child’s success.”
It must have been in response to something I’d done in school – a bad grade or a fight I’d gotten into with a classmate. I looked at her, puzzled, her words seeming nothing more than a punishment for the trouble I had caused at school.
At the time, I was too young and naive to grasp the unspoken pain behind them.
*
My mum grew up in Thái Nguyên, a charming, tranquil city nestled two hours north of Hà Nội, renowned for its tea export. She fondly recalls her childhood there, describing it as “simple and adorable” (đơn giản và đáng yêu). The rhythm of life was slow, nature abundant, and the landscape a patchwork of never-ending rice paddies and tea plantations. She would ride through the village on her bicycle, the wind brushing her hair and dancing through the wheat, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil.
It was here where my grandparents had three kids: my mum and her two younger brothers. They were named after the seasons – Thu (Autumn), Đông (Winter) and Xuân (Spring). As the eldest and only daughter, my mum shouldered the responsibility of the household, her days swallowed by endless chores. While her parents worked, she cooked, cleaned, and tended to her brothers.
Hunched over a small coal stove, the heat clung to her clammy skin as the acrid smell of burning ash suffocated the cramped kitchen. Her fingers would be blackened with soot by the time she finished cooking. Food was a luxury, with every grain of rice and scrap of meat considered gold. Vietnamese people have a saying: “Every grain of rice you leave in the bowl is one maggot you have to eat in hell”.
If she overcooked the rice, it was not just a simple mistake but a waste of the family’s resources. Mẹ hung her head in shame as my grandmother reprimanded her for her carelessness, demanding why she couldn’t even cook rice correctly. From then on, every dish had to be prepared perfectly.
*
In fourth grade, one of my homework assignments from my home economics class was to practice different sewing stitches. I sat next to Mẹ on the living room couch and watched as she threaded the needle in a swift, effortless motion. She guided me through some simple stitches – a running stitch, a back stitch and a hemming stitch. Her hands moved harmoniously with the needle, like an orchestra conductor, guiding each stitch with a deliberate yet fluid rhythm.
When we finished, I compared my uneven, bumpy stitching to her perfectly spaced and uniform lines.
“How did you learn to sew so well?”
She explained that it was out of necessity – money was scarce and my grandparents couldn’t afford to buy new clothes for her and her brothers. If their clothes tore from playing outside, she had to patch them up, making sure they had something to wear to school.
I looked down at my shirt: not a tear or stain in sight. My mum has always ensured I had the best quality clothes, which were often brought back from her overseas business trips. I stood out in my mauve flared corduroy pants, faux fur jacket and baby pink scarf.
At this moment, I caught a glimpse of the level of poverty she endured. I couldn’t fathom how she had once lived with only one set of clothes, while my closet overflowed with shirts, pants, dresses, and skirts – some brand new and never worn.
“Nghèo thế”, she quietly chuckled. “I can’t believe how poor we were.”
*
At 18, Mẹ packed her bags and moved to Hà Nội for university, leaving behind a familiar, quiet countryside for the crowded, bustling capital city. At 24, she landed a position in a United Nations project in Bến Tre, where she found purpose in community development and public health. Through this job, she would later meet my dad. At 26, she had an unexpected pregnancy with me, an event that must have shaken her world.
*
While growing up, these crucial chapters of her life were lost to me. The more I learned about her childhood, her passions, her struggles and the motivations that shaped her, the more I realised I had missed out on so much of her.
Do I even know my mum? Why did she never share her stories with me?
Communication was never our strong suit. As with most Vietnamese families, we didn’t say “I love you” out loud; instead, we expressed it through actions.
Mẹ showed her love by spending hours boiling chicken bones to make congee for me whenever I was sick. Love was demonstrated through acts of service, but “mẹ yêu con” (I love you) was never an option. In this way, silence became a form of love.
However, silence also meant forgotten stories. I was afraid to probe into her past, worried that I would unearth wounds too raw to heal, and unsure if I could offer the comfort she needed. The silence created a distance between us. How could I understand her if I didn’t know who she was? How could I begin to comprehend her invisible suffering and the silent sacrifices she has made for me?
*
Our communication began to improve as I got older. A combination of both our willingness to share and grow and perhaps a realisation that we’re the only family we have in Australia.
I learned more about her life. How she loved to go to karaoke with her friends during university (one of her favourite songs was ‘Hotel California’ by the Eagles). How she was embarrassed for not knowing how to use a fork and knife at a fine-dining restaurant and promised herself she would never let that happen to her daughter. How she almost drowned in a river as a child while playing with her brothers. I then understood why she took me to swimming lessons at such a young age and yelled at me when I refused to get in the pool.
*
“A mother is blamed for her child’s mistakes but a father is celebrated for his child’s success.”
Although Mẹ’s words were born from frustration and anger, they were never meant to punish me. Perfection was demanded of her throughout her life – first as a flawless daughter, then as an ideal wife, and finally as a perfect mother.
Despite all her sacrifices, the “wrongs” always seemed to overshadow the “rights”. She carried the crushing weight of those expectations alone, silently enduring them with the hope of giving me a better life.