I got pregnant when I was in Grade 10. My parents looked at me coldly and said, “You brought shame to this family. From now on, we are no longer our children.”
Holding my stomach, swallowing the pain, I walked away from what had once been the safest place in my life—without turning back.
I gave birth to my daughter in a cramped eight-square-meter rented room. It was poor, suffocating, and full of whispers and judgment. I raised her with everything I had. When she turned two, I left my province and took her to Saigon. By day I worked as a waitress; by night, I studied a vocational course.
I found an opportunity in online business. One step at a time, I built my own company.
Six years later, I bought a house.
Ten years later, I opened a chain of stores.
Twenty years later, my assets exceeded 200 billion VND.
By every measure, I had succeeded.
Yet the pain of being abandoned by my own parents never truly faded.
One day, I decided to return.
Not to forgive.
But to show them what they had lost.
I drove my Mercedes back to my hometown. The house stood exactly as I remembered—old, crumbling, and even more neglected. Rust covered the gate. Paint peeled from the walls. Weeds choked the yard.
I stood at the door, took a breath, and knocked three times.
A young woman—around eighteen—opened the door.
I froze.
“Who are you looking for?” she asked gently.
Before I could answer, my parents stepped outside. When they saw me, they stopped dead. My mother covered her mouth, tears filling her eyes.
I smiled coldly.
“So… now you regret it?” Continue reading…
