Today, the air hung heavy with grief. My friend, whom I hadn't seen in a decade, stood beside a freshly turned grave, her mother laid to rest six feet below.
The funeral and the following week of mourning rituals were a blur of shared sorrow. My friend confided in me that with these traditions complete, she might not return to Vietnam for another ten years. Her mother, she explained, was the anchor that always drew her back home.
For years, she had poured everything she had into caring for her mother. She emptied her savings, even quit her job abroad to spend the final three months by her side, holding her hand as she drew her last breath.
A bittersweet smile touched her lips as she admitted relief in accompanying her mother on this final journey. Yet, a lifetime dedicated to care came at a cost. At 40, she owned no house, a stark reminder of the sacrifices made. A sigh escaped her, revealing the loneliness of her life abroad. She juggled laughter, tears, and hardship alone, fiercely independent, unwilling to burden others. Friendships existed, but the hollowness within remained.
Gently, I encouraged her to embrace vulnerability. Accepting help, even small gestures, isn't a burden, but a way to express and receive love. We sat there in silence. Her eyes, though dry, spoke volumes. The brokenness within, the fear of navigating life without her mother's warmth, was palpable. In the depths of sorrow, tears sometimes run dry.
Despite the time spent apart, the years melted away when we reconnected. It felt like we'd picked up right where we left off.
As I prepared to leave, her voice surprised me. "Would you visit me? My home is always open" she asked a flicker of hope in her eyes. "Can we meet again before I go?"
"Absolutely," I said. "Let's meet again. And guess what? I can't wait for next year. I'll come visit you then."
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