I once held a strange baby in my arms and called him “my child” from the very first moment. I once took out exactly $350 from my pocket — the largest amount of money I had ever held in my life — to take him away from his biological parents. I dare not say that I did the most right thing in the world, but at that moment, amidst the hoarse cries of a hungry baby and the desperate looks of the young couple, I only thought: “If I don’t hold him now, who will hold him to sleep tonight? Who will feed him the first spoonful of porridge tomorrow?”

I named my child Mia.

Back then, people around me were whispering at the district’s farmers’ market. They said: “I’m taking someone else’s child in, what if there will be trouble later?” I laughed bitterly: “People buy cabinets and beds to keep the house clean. I buy a tiny heartbeat to live with.” It sounds like a lot, but in fact I was poor. Meals were sometimes just boiled vegetables with a little salt. I sell vegetables at the farmer’s market, waking up at three in the morning, driving my old hatchback to the wholesale warehouse to get goods; my hands are freezing, my face is chapped from the wind. But at night, I am still gentle enough to wash Mia’s hair with warm water brewed with chamomile tea, still patient enough to lull her to sleep, counting to a hundred without sighing.

Mia grew up in a small alley that always smelled of the sun drying clothes on the clothesline. Her skin became whiter every day — the whiteness of a full meal, of a warm sleep. She spoke politely, knowing how to say yes and no. Sometimes, Mia sat in front of the door, folding paper cranes and giving them to me, saying: “Mom keeps them in her wallet, if you’re tired, open them and blow them so the cranes can fly.” Hearing her say that, I laughed until tears came to my eyes, feeling the cracks in my heart gradually heal.

I never dared to think of the day I would have to leave Mia. But change doesn’t knock on the door with human voices. It came with the results from the clinic, with the doctor’s gentle shake of the head, with nights of coughing so hard that I sat up in the middle of the night clutching my chest and breathing. Selling vegetables was easy but long-term, one day off meant two days without rice. I pawned whatever I could pawn, borrowed from whomever I could borrow. Finally, one drizzly afternoon, I took off my last pair of gold earrings — the only memory of a broken marriage — and placed them on the pawn shop counter.

The medicine cost a lot. The days of treatment were as long as a road with no end. I knew I was about to collapse. I thought of Mia as if I were a shoulder to lean on, but then I understood: if I left my child by my side, I would drag her into the same misery. I chose the most painful way: to go to Mia’s biological parents.

They had moved, the mobile home had a green mesh fence; in the yard hung a muddy raincoat. The mother looked at me through the window like an old acquaintance who was hard to name. I took a sip of water, knelt down in the yard, the wind blew against my neck, my voice broke: “Take my child back to me. I am sick, I am afraid I cannot bear it. Leaving my child with me now is a sin.”

They were silent for a long time. Finally, the man said softly: “Okay. You bring her back here. When she is well… then we will think about it.”

I carried Mia into the twilight, the sky was as gray as a wrung-out towel. She hugged my neck, her lips trembling: “I am not going anywhere.” I softened my voice: “Listen, Mom. Just stay with Mom and Dad for a while, when you are done, I will take you home.” No one told me that “a while” could be as long as a lifetime. I also did not tell my child that my promise of “I will take you home” was the only rope to keep me from falling, yet it was as fragile as a strand of hair.

The day I let my child out of my arms, I realized how heavy my heart could be.

What followed were terrifying months. I tried to find a cure, lulling myself to sleep every night by imagining Mia wearing her school bag every morning and coming home for hot rice and soup at noon. I passed by the grocery store and saw a pink butterfly hair clip, wanting to buy one, telling myself that I would put it in her hair that smelled of chrysanthemum tea when I saw her tomorrow. But every time I went to the gate of that house, I lacked the courage. Sometimes I told myself, “Let her get better first,” and sometimes I was afraid of being told I was bothering her. I called a few times, and the mother mumbled that her child was still going to school. I believed her. Because I needed something to believe in, like needing a bowl of porridge in the morning to have enough strength to go to the market.

Then one day, the fishmonger put the local newspaper on the tray, and

“It’s raining, sit down and rest for a while.” I saw a photo of a child sleeping huddled next to a pigsty somewhere, with a short caption: “Girl locked up with pigs, neighbors report to the authorities.” I closed the newspaper immediately. My insides churned as if someone had twisted them.

A voice suddenly popped up in my head: “Go.”

I took my bike to that green fence before lunchtime. The gate was unlocked. The yard was muddy, with puddles of water. The hog pen was standing in the corner, the mesh walls rustling. I heard the big animal’s heavy breathing, the rustling of straw. And in a corner of the pen, surrounded by the stench, Mia lay, curled up like a wet cat, her heels covered in dirt.

I don’t remember how I stepped through that mud. I only remember my chest being pulled back, choking. “Mia!” — the child’s name came out of my throat like a cry for help. The little girl blinked, looked at me for a few seconds, then jumped up and hugged my neck. “Mom… Mom…” Her voice was hoarse and thin as a thread.

I understood what it meant to be in so much pain that there were no more tears left. But the tears still flowed, not drop by drop, but like a stream. I carried Mia out, her feet sliding in the mud, her thin T-shirt clinging to her body. I rubbed my hands on her back, just wanting to wipe away everything that life had smeared on her skin.

The biological mother walked out, her face expressionless. She looked at me holding Mia, sniffed: “She’s naughty, she runs in there to sleep, who can take care of her?” I looked up, trying to say softly: “I’m sorry… I’m taking her back. Leaving her here, she’s suffering too much.” She pursed her lips, probably more annoyed than remorseful. The man standing behind said casually: “Then you take care of her. We’re busy making a living.”

I hugged Mia and left so quickly that I was afraid that if I was even a beat late, someone would change their mind.

On the way home, Mia leaned her head on my shoulder, the smell of sweat mixed with the smell of mud and something very familiar — the smell of the old days: the smell of cotton pillows, the smell of dried chrysanthemums on the stove. I thought she would ask a thousand “why” questions, but Mia only whispered: “Mom, don’t leave me this time.” My nose was so sore that it was numb. I swallowed a promise — the most serious promise of my life: “Mom, I won’t leave you again.”

My house was still the old attic, the paint on the side walls peeled off, revealing the cement veins. I washed Mia with warm water, bit by bit, as if I was washing away a dream. Mia sat still on the plastic chair, her deep black eyes looking at me without blinking. I asked her what she wanted to eat. She shook her head. I remembered that Mia used to love chicken noodle soup, so much so that every time she ate it, tears would flow from the chili powder, but she still smiled. That day, I cooked a pot of tomato soup and placed it in a flower bowl. Mia held the spoon very slowly, as if she was on guard. The first spoonful in her mouth, she burst into tears.

“Go ahead and cry,” I said, my hands shaking as I put down the spoon. “After you’re done crying, we’ll eat.”

That night, Mia slept fitfully. She woke up in the middle of the night, clutching my hand as if she was afraid I would disappear. I didn’t sleep either. I listened to the rain pattering on the tin roof, to the wind blowing through the peeling paint on the wall. I realized that my house, though poor, still had enough room for two people and a breakfast of two crispy loaves of bread.

The next day, I took Mia to buy a white shirt. She was thin, her shirt drooping like thin paper flowers. The salesgirl said, “She’s pretty.” I nodded, feeling warmth in my chest. In the afternoon, I tied Mia’s hair with a green cloth string, tying it into a small knot as if to tie off each danger. Mia looked at herself in the dim mirror and smiled — a shy smile like a flower that had not yet fully bloomed.

I took Mia back to school. The teacher asked many questions, her eyes half worried, half happy. I said little, just asked Mia to sit at the front desk, so that she wouldn’t have to try too hard. She understood. Whether people blamed me or not, at this point it was smaller than Mia having a safe place in a classroom.

At night, we spread out a mat in the middle of the house. I opened the old wooden box, inside were the small things I kept: the first lucky money Mia received (at church that year), the old ribbon, the paper crane I folded, worn and discolored. Mia lifted the crane, blew gently. She smiled: “The crane won’t fly anymore.” I touched her hand: “It’s okay. Let’s fold another one, give it new wings.”

There was one thing I only dared to say softly: a long time ago, I forgave myself. It wasn’t that I forgot, but I realized that forgiveness is also a way of making up for it. I had been silent for too long in the face of the signs; I had believed too easily in the words “good attendance” over the phone. I had chosen a painful solution out of desperation. But I could do something else today: stay.

One afternoon, Mia followed me to the market, sat inside the vegetable stall, and watched people passing by. My daughter was tying a bunch of water spinach (here, it’s called water spinach, sold to overseas Vietnamese), and invited me: “Sir, please buy some vegetables.” Her voice was clear and round, reminding me of the old days like a movie rewinding. The customer asked: “Is it your child?” I no longer stuttered. I said: “Yes, my child.” After speaking, I felt a stinging in the corner of my eyes, and had to turn away for a second.

Many nights, Mia startled and called me in a fearful voice — a nameless fear, like when someone touches a door that had slammed hard on their face. I sat up, hugged her, and told her the story of a lost white cat, then found its way home because of the familiar smell of baked goods. Mia listened, her breathing gradually evened out. I rubbed her back, thinking about the day at the hog pen as if the storm had passed, leaving behind a distorted roof. Fixing the roof took time. But it could be fixed.

Sometimes I think about the $350 years ago. Some people say I’m stupid, why did I pay that much? I answer: “I didn’t buy a baby. I bought the opportunity to be her mother.” The money paid, right or wrong — I’m not sure anymore. But I know, from the first day I brought Mia home, I got something more precious: to live as a person who has a reason to wake up early, to eat a hot meal and to believe that tomorrow is worth waiting for.

I also think about that young couple. I can’t choose differently for them. I just hope that if one day they remember Mia, they will remember her with a gentle feeling rather than guilt. Because hatred doesn’t raise anyone. As for me, I’m busy raising a child who needs to grow up.

People often end with a lesson. I don’t know what my lesson is. Maybe it’s: don’t test a child with the absence of an adult. Maybe it’s: don’t push a mother into a dead end and then blame her for choosing a thorny path. It could also be: when it comes to “mother,” there is no such thing as “temporary.”

I am not writing these lines to ask for pity. I just want to preserve a drizzly afternoon, a green painted fence, a rusty corner of a pigsty, and the call “Mom” that revived the best part of me. I also want to tell those who are struggling: when you think you have lost everything, just one step back and you will see the path.

This morning, I stroked Mia’s hair in front of the mirror. Her hair was neatly tied, her white shirt was flat, her eye sockets were less dark. She was wearing a backpack whose strap I had replaced with a dark blue parachute cord. Before going out the door, Mia turned back: “Mom, would you like chicken soup and noodles for dinner?” I laughed: “Eat.” “Then I will.” “No, let me make it for you.” Mia shook her head: “Let me make it for you. The white crane can fly.”

I was stunned for a second, seeing a thin ray of sunlight drifting through the window and landing on her sparse hair. I wanted to hug my child one more time without any reason. But I held back, just saying: “Go to school.” My child walked out the door, his figure slender but steady. I stood there longer than usual, my back against the wall, my hand still warm from the handshake before he left the house.

Maybe people will talk forever about how I once “bought” my child. Maybe someone will forever remember the image of a child curled up in a pigsty. For me, the story begins from the moment my child called me mom again. Everything before that was just a challenge for us to be able to stand next to each other today.

And if one day, Mia is old enough to read these lines, she will understand: $350 is not her price. $350 is the bridge I risked building between one bank of loneliness and the other bank of maternal love. The bridge sometimes rotted, sometimes tilted, sometimes about to collapse. But she crossed it, with all her heart.

I know, we will no longer dream of pigsties. We will dream of a sunny drying yard, where the paper cranes Mia folded fluttered on the clothesline like little birds. I will teach my child to tie the safety rope of each dream. My child will teach me to forgive the lost days.

In the afternoon, I put on a pot of chrysanthemum water. In the cramped kitchen, the gentle aroma spread out, touching the dark corners, bringing everything back to its gentle form. I heard the sound of the gate lock clicking, the sound of Mia’s shoes running into the house. “Mom, I’m home!” I turned around, smiling: “I’m home with you, my child.” And I knew that the promise that day – “I won’t leave you again” – had become a normal breathing rhythm, ready to accompany mother and child for the rest of the journey.