“Next weekend, I’ll go to the camp and visit Hải.”
“Don’t… What if you collapse on the way? Then what would I do, left with no one to lean on?”
“That foolish boy… he has brought nothing but suffering to you and me. And yet – he is still our flesh and blood.”
Lan’s heart sank. Since the day he had been sent away to serve his sentence in a remote land, thousands of miles from home, she had not once managed to visit him. Her fragile health was one reason, but even more, she feared she might not be able to stand upon seeing him again. Truly, a child’s mistakes are a mother’s burden. She missed him – missed him with a longing that tore at her chest. Like any child, the cord had been cut at birth, but she knew another cord still bound them together: the invisible, sacred bond of mother and son. She could feel it, and she knew the wayward boy must be yearning to see her too.
As for Tuân, though father and son had always been at odds, his heart was cut to shreds when he heard the news: Hải sentenced to forty months for possession of drugs. Not a long sentence perhaps, yet long enough to brand the boy he often cursed as “good-for-nothing” with a bitter lesson. Many nights he lay awake, hand pressed against his forehead, he wondered if it was his fault. Had he driven the boy away, He remembered how often he had raised his hand against the boy – sometimes with a bamboo switch, sometimes with a tree branch, even with the heavy pole of a carrying yoke. Lan had tried to shield him, begging for mercy, but to little avail. Father and son grew estranged. To avoid the violence of a drunken father Hải fled home, wandering the streets, sinking deeper into addiction.
At his lowest, desperate for money, he even stooped to stealing ornamental plants. People often said he was gentle by nature, but when the craving came, he was like a madman, beyond all control. All he wanted was money – money to feed the merciless hunger of his body. Perhaps prison had saved him – from dying alone in some dark alley, under a bridge, with a needle in his vein.
“So, what do you plan to bring him?”
“I’ll cook some caramelized pork, fry it salty so it keeps. A bit of dried anchovy, some fish sauce pickles, roasted peanuts with salt. He must be hungry up there, deprived of so much. They say prison food is nothing but thin rice and watery soup – how can anyone live on that? If only he were serving time nearby, I could bring him food more often.”
Tuân fumbled under the mat for the scraps of savings he had hidden away. Nearly a year bedridden after a stroke, he had hoarded every small sum people gifted when visiting. Carefully, Tuân handed them to his wife:
“I’ve saved this much. Take it all, buy him more food. Tell him your father said: Do your best, reform yourself, and come home. We are still waiting.”
Lan sighed. Deep down, she prayed that Heaven might soften its heart – that once released, perhaps a good woman would overlook his dark past, choose to love him, marry him, and give him children. Maybe then, he would finally settle down and build a decent life.
That night, she lay restless, unable to sleep. Memories flooded back – the days when he was small, innocent, clinging to her side. Tears blurred her fading eyes. No matter how the years had hardened him, no matter the mistakes he bore, to her he was still that fragile child in need of her embrace, her shelter, her unconditional love.
(To be continued)
Excerpt from Diary of a Mother Visiting Her Son in Prison
– from the short story collection by Hà Kim
