Orchid season

My mother and I stepped into my grandmother’s house. The place hadn’t changed much—still filled with that warm scent of aged wood, a small space, but overflowing with love.

We entered the living room and sat down. I glanced around, almost like I was searching for some dusty old memory tucked away on a shelf—among the glass jars, the neatly arranged trinkets, the faded photographs of my mother as a child and as a young woman.

And then it hit me—there were no photos of my grandmother as an adult. Not a single one. That thought lingered in my mind just long enough for her to enter the room, carrying two cups of warm chrysanthemum tea. The air seemed to shift—the cold that had pierced through our coats outside began to melt into the soft warmth of that tea.

She looked at my mother, her voice firm but filled with affection:

— “Lan Mai, are you cold? I’ve already prepared your room.”

Then she turned to me, her gaze steady but tender:

— “Hiếu, you’ve grown so much. I almost forgot I had a grandchild—my only one. I bet you’ve forgotten me too, haven’t you?”

I replied immediately, with a teasing smile:

— “Even if I grew up in the city, I’ve always known I had the most wonderful grandmother in the world.”

She gave me a gentle smile, the kind that warms your chest, and said softly:

— “Well then, I’ve prepared your room. You can go on up.”

⸻

A little while later, I climbed the stairs. As I wandered down the hallway, something about the room in front of me surprised me. It was cozy—bathed in a soft orange-yellow hue. The bed was embroidered with delicate orchid patterns. On the left, a window opened out toward a wall of climbing vines swaying gently outside.

I wondered—could this have been my mother’s childhood room?

Looking down from the top of the stairs, I saw my mother and grandmother talking. Their faces carried a quiet tenderness, tinged with sorrow. Like two old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years.

I overheard something—my mother was moving in with my grandmother. I could sense the surprise in my grandmother’s voice as she asked about my father. My mother paused for a moment, then replied:

— “I’m going to leave Hiếu here with us. He won’t find out.”

I didn’t pay much attention to the conversation. Maybe I’d grown used to things like this. It wasn’t that I didn’t care—I truly loved her. That was the reason we were here.

Then mother spoke of my grandfather. I noticed a shimmer in my grandmother’s eyes. So he had passed away recently. My mother began to cry, tears falling quietly. I stood there, not knowing what to do—just watching.

I had grown used to her crying. Not because I didn’t care. But because I had seen it too often. That’s why I loved her even more.

I walked back to the room and lay down on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Fatigue from the long journey pulled me under. Slowly. I drifted off.

And so began the quiet prelude… to a great change.

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