I looked at the two little girls hiding behind Lam Man.
Then at my son’s cramped room.
—Yes.
Lam Man froze.
—What?
—I don’t welcome you.
Her face turned white.
I continued calmly:
—Not because of the children.
—Because this is my home.
—And while I was away taking care of my mother, you moved into my bedroom, wore my clothes, used my things, and pushed my son into a storage room.
Aunt Dao immediately stepped forward.
—Madam, the master made all the arrangements.
I turned to her.
—Then call him.
Nobody moved.
—Call Ha Dinh Chau.
Lam Man bit her lip.
—He’s in a meeting.
I smiled.
—Of course.
Seven years of marriage.
Whenever something happened at home, Ha Dinh Chau was always in a meeting.
I took out my phone and called him myself.
First call.
No answer.
Second.
Rejected.
Then a message appeared.
I’m busy. Talk to Man Man if something happens at home.
Man Man.
I stared at those two words.
So intimate.
So natural.
As if she were his wife.
I showed the message to Lam Man.
—He told me to talk to you.
Her expression stiffened.
—Tinh Dao, don’t misunderstand—
—Then let’s talk.
I pointed at the small suitcase beside Du An’s bed.
—Why did my son pack his things?
She didn’t answer.
I bent down and opened it.
Three shirts.
Two pairs of pants.
His favorite astronomy book.
A toothbrush.
And an envelope.
On the front, in Du An’s handwriting:
For Mom.
My fingers suddenly went cold.
I opened it.
There was only half a page.
Mom, when you come back, don’t be angry. Dad said Aunt Man and the sisters need this home more than we do.
I stopped breathing.
The next sentence was crooked, as if he had written it while crying.
Dad said I am already ten and should learn not to compete with younger children.
I could no longer hear anything around me.
At the bottom was one final line.
If you come home and can’t find me, I went to Grandma’s old apartment. Don’t worry. I know the way.
I looked up sharply.
—Where is Du An?
Nobody answered.
My voice changed.
—Where is my son?
Aunt Dao panicked.
—Young Master went to school this morning.
I checked the clock.
Four thirty.
—School ended at three.
Lam Man’s face finally showed fear.
—I thought the driver picked him up.
—Which driver?
Silence.
I called the family driver.
He answered immediately.
—Madam?
—Did you pick up Du An?
The man hesitated.
—No.
My heart sank.
—Why?
—Mr. Ha said from this week onward I only need to pick up Miss Lam’s two daughters.
The hallway seemed to tilt.
I gripped the phone.
—And Du An?
—He said Young Master is old enough to take the bus.
I closed my eyes for one second.
Then walked downstairs.
Lam Man followed.
—Tinh Dao, perhaps he went to a friend’s house.
I turned around.
—If anything happens to my son, you had better pray Ha Dinh Chau’s money can buy time backward.
Her face went pale.
I grabbed my coat and left.
Grandma’s old apartment was forty minutes away.
The building had been empty for nearly a year.
My mother had moved closer to the hospital before surgery.
Du An knew the address.
But he had never gone there alone.
I called him again and again.
Phone off.
I called his teacher.
Then his classmates.
Nothing.
By the time I arrived at the old apartment building, the sky had already darkened.
The security guard recognized me.
—Mrs. Ha?
—Did a boy come here? Ten years old. About this tall.
His expression changed.
—Your son?
My throat tightened.
—Yes.
The guard nodded.
—He came around four.
My knees almost gave way.
—Where is he?
—He sat in the lobby for a while. Then a man came to pick him up.
I froze.
—What man?
The guard thought.
—Tall. Black coat. Looked wealthy.
My first thought was Ha Dinh Chau.
—Was it his father?
The guard shook his head.
—No.
My blood went cold.
—Did you see the car?
—Black Bentley.
I stared at him.
There was only one person I knew who drove that car.
Someone I hadn’t seen in seven years.
Someone Ha Dinh Chau had forbidden me to contact after our wedding.
Before I could speak, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered immediately.
A man’s voice came from the other end.
Deep.
Familiar.
—Tinh Dao.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
I hadn’t heard that voice in seven years.
—Where is Du An?
He ignored my question.
—You finally came home.
My chest tightened.
—Give me my son.
There was a short silence.
Then the man laughed softly.
—Your son?
Something about his tone made my skin turn cold.
—What do you mean?
He answered slowly:
—Ask Ha Dinh Chau whose son Du An really is.
The call ended.
I stood motionless in the lobby.
Then my phone vibrated again.
A photograph.
Du An was sitting safely inside a car, wrapped in a black coat, asleep against the window.
Beside him was the profile of the man I had once known better than anyone.
My first love.
Ha Dinh Chau’s older brother.
Ha Minh Khang.
And beneath the photograph was one sentence:
He has the same blood type as me. You never wondered why?
