I am Linh, twenty years old, a final year student of a design course.
My friends often say that I look older than my age—perhaps because I grew up with my mother, a strong and hardworking woman who raised me alone.
My father died early, and my mother never remarried. Instead, she devoted her entire life to working to support me.
One day, I joined a volunteer project. There I met Brother Nam—the head of the technical team, who was almost two decades older than me.
He was quiet, gentlemanly, and spoke with a depth of voice that seemed to be healing a wound deep inside.
At first, I only felt respect. But as time went on, every look he gave me and every voice he made my heart beat faster.
Brother Nam had a stable job and a lot of experience.
He had been through a failed marriage, but he had no children.
He didn’t talk about the past; he just said,
“I once lost something very important. Now, I just want to live a good life.”
Gradually, our relationship deepened—not dramatic, not noisy.
He loved gently and carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking something fragile.
I could hear others talking:
“That girl is still young, how can she be with a man twice her age?”
But I ignored them. With Nam, I found peace.
One day, he said,
“Linh, I want to meet your mother. I don’t want to hide it or pretend it.”
I hesitated. Mom was strict, and always worried.
But if our love was true, I had nothing to fear.
The day of the visit arrived.
Nam was wearing a shirt, carrying daisies—Mom’s favorite flower that I had once told her about.
We entered the old yard holding hands. Mom was watering the plants. When she saw us, she stopped.
For a moment… and it was as if time stood still.
Before I could introduce myself, she suddenly put down the watering can and hugged Brother Nam tightly, tears streaming down her face.
“My God… is that you, Nam?!”
I stopped where I was standing.
Brother Nam was shaking, his eyes red:
“You… are you Hoa?”
I was confused. Did they know each other?
Mom sobbed:
“Twenty years… you’re still alive…”
That’s when the past began to unfold.
When Mom was young, before she met Dad, she had her first love — Nam himself.
They loved each other very much, but an accident separated them.
It was rumored at the time that Nam had died.
She mourned for several years, until my Dad arrived, who warmed her cold heart again.
They got married, and I became the fruit of their love.
But just a few years later, Dad also passed away due to illness.
It turns out that Brother Nam survived the accident, but lost his memory and was taken by fate to another place.
There were people who helped him, but all he remembers is “a woman who loved daisies.”
That’s why when we first met at the project, he said I seemed familiar.
He couldn’t explain it, but he said he felt a connection.
And here’s the thing—my name “Linh” was Mom’s middle name when she was young.
It seemed like fate was playing a joke. It brought back a memory, but in a painful way.
My tears flowed down my cheeks.
“You mean… he was the ones before…”
Mom nodded, tears flowing down her cheeks:
“Yes, daughter. But don’t worry, you’re not related by blood.
I just didn’t expect that the man I loved then would be the same man my daughter loves now.”
Everyone was silent.
I felt a weight on my chest, as if I didn’t know where to go.
Kuya Nam finally spoke:
“Linh, forgive me. I didn’t know that this was the truth. I never meant to hurt you.”
That evening, I sat on the balcony.
Mom came over and patted my shoulder.
“Daughter, love is not a sin. But sometimes, fate sets things not to last, but to teach us to forgive and say goodbye.”
I cried—not out of anger, but out of pity and understanding.
I knew what I felt was true, but I couldn’t continue to do so.
A few months later, Nam left the city.
He left a letter:
“Thank you, Linh, for reminding me of what it feels like to love again.
When we met, I regained part of the past I had lost.
And when I met your mother, I found my own peace.
Even though we weren’t meant for each other, I will carry your kindness in my heart for the rest of my life.”
Mom kept the letter in a small box, next to Dad’s picture.
She said:
“Sometimes, life’s relationships are not given to bind us, but to teach us the value of letting go.”
Years passed. I became a designer.
And every time I see daisies, I always think of Nam — the man I loved, but more than that, the man who taught me that true love doesn’t have to end together to remain beautiful.
“True love doesn’t always have a happy ending.
But if it’s filled with respect and kindness, it stays beautiful—forever.”