She vowed never marry again.
Not because she had ceased to love—
but because some griefs
do not leave enough room
for another name
to enter the house.
And perhaps
because by then
her womb had already become
a museum of waiting.
So she remained alone.
Not childless —
never childless —
for millions came after 1975,
calling her Mother
without knowing
that every step she took
carried the weight of a grieving heart.
Some children returned to her.
A few came home
in wheelchairs,
their missing legs arriving
before they did.
Some returned in urns,
lighter than the bags of rice
their mothers once carried.
Some came only as photographs
hung beside incense smoke
that curled upward
like unanswered questions.
And some returned from distant lands
for two weeks,
for a month,
for one Tet.
They kissed her forehead,
flattered her beautiful again,
then boarded airplanes
and left her once more
with the sound
of rolling suitcases.
Now her house is full.
Children and stepchildren everywhere,
gathering under her care. .
They laugh in new accents.
Eat in new cafés.
Call her by her new maiden name
she still turns around slowly
to recognize.
Sometimes even the streets
confuse her.
The roads she once walked barefoot
now disappear beneath glass towers,
motorbike smoke,
and neon reflections
she no longer understands.
At night,
she coughs quietly.
The weight of too many buildings
presses against her old lungs.
And still
she says nothing.
Once,
she gently asked her stepchildren:
“If your birth mother misses you…
why not return to her?”
But they lowered their eyes
and answered softly:
“We like it here.
You are gentler with us.”
So what can she do?
Nothing.
A widow learns long ago
that love cannot be forced,
and departure cannot be stopped.
So each year
when April returns,
she touches again
the widow she once was.
she does not argue
with those who celebrate.
Children must live.
Children must sing.
But somewhere
behind closed windows,
in old apartments,
nursing homes,
and quiet living rooms abroad,
her oldest children still weep
into cups of tea
gone cold in their hands.
And she weeps with them.
Only once a year.
Only on that day.
Do not cry for her.
This, too,
has become her destiny.