Скачать или смотреть A Beautiful Love Story- Chapter 3

Chapter Three – The Nguyễn Family, 1955–1957

1. Shadows of Loss – Thanh Mai’s Illness (1956)

The early months of 1956 were quiet in our Sài Gòn home, but the calm was deceptive. The city itself had not yet healed from the wounds of 1954, and in our household, life seemed to teeter between joy and uncertainty. The children’s laughter filled the rooms, yet beneath it lay the invisible threads of worry that always clung to my mother.

Thanh Mai, the energetic six-year-old, had always been the heart of the younger children. Her bright eyes and unbridled curiosity were a constant source of delight. But as the months wore on, a persistent cough began to sap her vitality. Fever followed, and soon the little girl who once raced ahead of her siblings lay weak and shivering in her small bed.

In 1956, medicine was not as accessible as it would be decades later. Antibiotics were scarce, and hospitals could not always ensure adequate care. My father, trained in veterinary medicine and now a dedicated researcher of diseases, faced a cruel irony: he could save animals with a knowledge painstakingly acquired at school and in the field, yet could do nothing to stop the illness that claimed his child.

Evenings became long, heavy with silence broken only by her labored breathing. My mother sat beside her bed, damp cloth pressed to her forehead, murmuring prayers. My father paced the corridor, heart tightening with every cough, unable to intervene.

The day Thanh Mai passed away, the house seemed to lose its rhythm. Her absence was a hollow ache. My mother clutched her child’s tiny clothes, pressing them to her chest as though she could hold her soul there. My father stepped into the yard, staring up at the sky, feeling a sorrow that could not be put into words. His grief was interwoven with guilt: the knowledge that, despite all his learning, he could not shield his daughter from the inevitability of death.

In the weeks that followed, our home was subdued. The children felt the emptiness but could not comprehend it. Even the garden outside seemed muted, as if mourning alongside us. Thanh Mai’s death became a turning point, a reminder of life’s fragility and a silent motivation for my father to seek stability and security for the remaining family.

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2. Duty Calls – Father’s Months in Nha Trang

By the end of 1956, my father’s professional responsibilities required him to travel to Nha Trang. He had been selected for advanced training at the Pasteur Institute, a center renowned for its work in medicine, veterinary science, and disease prevention. This period would be critical in shaping his career as a veterinary doctor, a role that would ultimately help him support our large family and protect the lives of many.

Leaving Sài Gòn was not easy. He traveled alone, carrying a small suitcase, but within it were the unspoken burdens of family, grief, and duty. As the train rumbled along the coast, he often gazed at the sea, reflecting on the daughter he had lost and the children he left behind. His letters home became lifelines: instructions on how to care for the children, reminders about meals, clothing, and schooling.

“Remember to keep the children warm. The rainy season is coming, and colds spread quickly. I will return soon with the training complete,” he wrote in one letter, folding it carefully before sending.