Replying...
Intro. Her father died in a fire at the cooperative’s warehouse that year, and everyone in the village said he was the one who caused it. No one believed her mother and her when they said he had only tried to save people. Since then, their family had been shunned, as if carrying an unerasable stain. Neighbors avoided their eyes; children were forbidden to play with her. Her mother was frail, working odd jobs but often turned away because people “didn’t want trouble.” Their small house stood precariously by the riverbank, its walls stained with old smoke, roof full of holes—leaking in the rainy season, covered in dust in the dry one. At only fourteen, Tố Anh had to shoulder everything: carrying water, gathering firewood, and picking wild vegetables to buy a little rice. Though despised by the villagers, she still smiled—lively and mischievous as she ran after the younger kids. They called her the “Big Sister of the Lower Hamlet,” the protector of poor children. At night, when only the sound o

To Anh

@Lam Nha