I am Hung, thirty-seven years old, living in a small town in Quang Nam. It has been three years since my wife – My – disappeared without leaving a message.

During those three years, I searched everywhere, posted on social networks, stayed at the police station, asked every acquaintance, but no one saw My… as if she had evaporated from the world.

Every night, I still kept the habit of turning on the hallway light, as if My was just going somewhere and would come back.

But My did not come back.

And today, I just lost another person: my mother – Mrs. Le.

1. THE LAST BREATH
Before she died, my mother lay on the hospital bed, gasping for breath, her eyes were blurred but she still tried to follow my every move. She held my hand, so weak that it felt like it could break at any moment.

“My… wardrobe… clothes…” – my mother whispered, then tried to raise her hand.

“Which closet, Mom? Your closet? Or my room?” – I kept asking.

She just trembled and pointed her finger towards her bedroom door. The old wooden wardrobe was close to the wall.

I didn’t understand.

“Mom… want… to open…” – she said intermittently, blinking her eyes continuously as if begging.

I nodded: “Yes, I understand, let me go check.”

Mom closed her eyes, her lips still moving, then… she left.

At that time, I only thought that maybe Mom wanted me to keep some of her old clothes or something. I had absolutely no idea that the closet was where Mom hid a truth that made me collapse
After the funeral, I returned home in a state of exhaustion. The house was eerily silent.

I walked into Mom’s room.

The wooden closet was still there, old, discolored, the hinges were a bit loose. I pulled the drawer, only to see a few old Ao Ba Ba outfits and scarves. I searched through each drawer but found nothing strange.

Until I tried to pull the inside of the bottom panel—it suddenly shook slightly.

I was startled.

I used both hands to gently pry it open. A small crack opened. Inside was a secret compartment I had never seen before.

It contained:

– A silver tin box.
– A cloth-wrapped diary.
– A USB.
– A sealed envelope, written on the outside:
“To Hung – when you are calm enough to read it.”

I stood there, stunned.

My hands were shaking.

I never knew my mother had a secret compartment in the closet.

Why would she leave things related to me here?

But what made my heart clench was the small line in the corner of the diary:

“My’s diary.”

My wife.
The one who disappeared three years ago.

The vein in my temple throbbed
I opened the letter first. Mom’s voice was clear as if she were sitting next to me.

“Hung, I’m sorry for hiding it from you.
I promised My I wouldn’t tell you unless something bad happened to me.

My didn’t leave you.
Don’t be angry with her…”

I felt my head explode.

She didn’t leave?
Then why didn’t you come back? Why didn’t you show up after three years of crying until your voice was hoarse?

I continued reading, my hands shaking so much that the letter was wrinkled:

“The day you and My had a big fight, My came to me. You said some very harsh words.
She had a miscarriage and I didn’t know.
She was depressed… but she hid it.
That night My fainted right in front of your house.
You took her in to take care of her.
My said you would be better off without her being the burden…”

I choked.

I remember that night, my husband and I argued about money and I was so busy that I didn’t care about My. I yelled at her:

“What do you do besides cause trouble? Always weak, tired, annoying!”

I had no idea… she was pregnant.

I bit my lip until it bled.

Mom continued writing:

“My decided to leave. She wanted you to be safe before coming back… but then she got seriously ill.
She didn’t want you to know so I kept my promise.
These are the things she left for you before going far away for treatment.
If you love My… go find her.
My is still alive.”

I read the last sentence over and over again.

Still… alive.

My tears fell in streams.
For the past three years, I had thought of the worst.
For the past three years, I blamed My, blamed myself… but I had never imagined such a cruel truth.

I opened the diary.

The first page was in a familiar handwriting – a round, soft handwriting:

“Day 1.
Hung, I’m sorry for being weak.
I didn’t dare tell you about the baby. I was afraid you weren’t ready.
I was afraid you would be under pressure.
And I lost the baby…”

I read each page:

– My had a miscarriage alone when I was away on a project.

– She was in so much pain that she had to be hospitalized but lied to me, saying “I was just tired.”

– She hid everything, afraid that I would be disappointed, afraid that her mother would blame her.

“I know I’m becoming more and more useless in your eyes.

Every time you frown at me, my heart aches to the point of difficulty breathing.

But I still love you so much that I want to keep all the burdens to myself.”

Page 27 made me unable to stand:

“Today you said I was a ‘burden’.
I don’t blame you.
I didn’t tell you anything.
I was afraid that staying would make you more tired…”

I put down the diary, my body was exhausted.

I had created the pain that made my wife leave.

I had used words to kill her from the inside.

I opened the tin box again.

Inside were:

– A scarf My knitted for me.

– A pair of earrings she liked.

– A wedding photo with faded edges.

– And a small letter that said:
“If you find this, it means that Mom couldn’t keep her promise. Don’t be angry with Mom.”

I couldn’t hold back my tears anymore.

I turned on the USB.

A video appeared.

The screen showed My’s face – thin, pale, deep-set eyes, not the radiant My of old. But the smile… was still the same as the first day we met.

“Mr. Hung…” – her voice trembled – “if you’re watching this, it means I’ve had to go somewhere else for treatment. I don’t want you to see me like this. I’m afraid you’ll be sad again.”

She took a deep breath:

“I know you were angry with me because of the things I hid. But honestly… I just want you to feel at ease, not to worry about me.

I love you more than I thought.

If one day you find me, and still consider me family… come here.”

She held up a piece of paper with the address of a rehabilitation center in Da Lat.

“I’ll wait… if I can.”

The video ended.

I collapsed on the floor, crying silently.

The room spun around.

All the pain of the past three years—all of it—turned out… I was the reason.

The next morning, I set off.

From Quang Nam to Da Lat, the road was more than several hundred kilometers long, but I didn’t feel tired. I just felt like my heart was being stabbed by thousands of needles.

I went to the nursing home.

The place was old, the sign was faded

I asked the receptionist.

The girl flipped through the notebook:

“Which patient are you looking for?”

“Vu Bao My.”

She looked up at me.

“My…? She was discharged from the hospital more than a year ago.”

I was stunned:
“Where are you going?”

“We don’t know. She said she wanted to go back to her hometown but didn’t say where. When she left… she only left this.”

The receptionist handed me a small envelope.

I opened it with trembling hands.

Inside was a piece of paper:

“If you have come here, it means you still love me.

I don’t want to be a burden anymore.

I will go somewhere else to start over.

Don’t look for me if your life is better.

If you still want to meet… look for me where we first met.”

I stood there dumbfounded.

The first place we met was… the Thu Bon river embankment, where we used to sit and eat grilled corn when we had only known each other for a few days.

I immediately turned the car back to Quang Nam.

The embankment was blowing in the afternoon wind.

I got out of the car, each step heavy as a stone.

I looked around.
There was no one… just a few vendors and a few tourists.

I told myself: Maybe I’m late. Maybe My just wrote that to reassure me.

Hope began to fade.

I walked along the embankment, to the exact place where we used to eat corn.

I stood still.
The river wind blew coldly.

I closed my eyes.

“Mr. Hung…?”

I opened my eyes wide.

My stood there.

Thinner, shorter hair, darker skin, but… it was My.
The person I had been crying for for the past three years.

I burst into tears.

I ran to hug her but stopped halfway, afraid she would feel uncomfortable.

My looked at me, her eyes red:

“I thought… you wouldn’t look for me anymore.”

I choked up:

“For three years… you lived like a soulless person.
If I found you and you allowed me… I want to start over.
This time, let me take care of you.”

My lowered her head, tears falling:

“I’m afraid… I’m still a burden…”

I held her hand, squeezing it tightly:

“No. A part of you. A person you love. Not a burden.”

My burst into tears.

I held her tightly.

As if I was afraid that if I let go… she would disappear.

That evening, the two of us sat back in the same place.

The grilled corn was still fragrant, the river breeze was still cool, but both of us were different.

After all, I understood one thing:
Words can save a person, they can also kill a person.

And luckily… My was still alive so I could make amends.

I kissed My lightly on the forehead and said:

“Come home with me?”

My nodded, tears falling onto my hand.

Three years apart.
Three years of pain.
But in the end, we found each other again