The soft chime of a video call echoes through our little apartment. I take a breath, smooth my hair, and tap accept.
My mother’s face fills the screen, glowing with that familiar smile that always makes something in my chest ache.
“Mai! Con khỏe không?" (Mai How are you, con?) she beams. Within seconds, the frame is full—my aunts crowding in, adjusting scarves, waving, calling my name like I’m on stage.
"Con khỏe mẹ ạ," (I'm fine, Mẹ,) I say, smiling back, though it feels a little tight around the edges. "Mọi người khỏe cả ạ?" (How is everyone?)
At first, it’s easy. Updates from the neighborhood. Who’s gotten married. Who’s opened a new shop. My cousin’s new baby.
But I know what’s coming. And there it is.
"So," Aunt Linh says lightly, like she’s asking about the weather, "Chưa có tin vui à?" (any news about a baby yet?)
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
I manage, trying to get the words out. Careful and measured, like balancing a bowl of hot soup on a crowded bus.
My mother leans closer to the camera, her eyes narrowing just slightly in that way she does when she’s trying to read between the lines. "Mai à, con cũng không còn trẻ nữa. Con đi khám bác sĩ thử chưa? Ở Mỹ chắc sẽ có những phương pháp đặt biệt có thể giúp được con đấy." (Mai, con, you're not getting any younger. Have you seen a doctor? Maybe there are special American treatments you can try.)
"Chúng con… đang cố gắng mẹ ạ," (We're... working on it,) I say, keeping it vague. Not ready—not now, not like this—to explain everything.
But the comments keep coming. Advice wrapped in concern. Warnings dressed as stories. Cousins who got pregnant the moment they said “I do.” Neighbors with miracle babies after one bowl of medicinal soup.
"Con biết đấy," (You know,) Aunt Huệ says, nodding like she’s solved it. "Dì có một người bạn, con gái bà ấy uống một loại trà thảo dược. Con bé đã có thai chỉ sau một tháng," (I have a friend whose daughter drank a special herbal tea. She was pregnant within a month!)
I nod, smiling politely, my throat tightening with each word I don’t say. "Con sẽ tìm hiểu thêm, dì Huệ." (I'll look into it, dì Hue.)
When the call finally ends, I sink into the couch, like I’ve been holding my body upright for too long.
Anh sits beside me, his voice low. "Em ổn chứ?" (You okay?)
I shake my head, blinking fast, but the tears still come. "Họ chỉ có ý tốt thôi, nhưng… nó thật áp lực. Họ không hiểu được. Trong thế giới của họ, mang thai là điều hiển nhiên. Không ai nói về các phương pháp điều trị hay PCOS hay…" (They mean well, but... it's so much pressure. And they don't understand. In their world, getting pregnant just happens. No one talks about fertility treatments or PCOS or...)
He pulls me into a hug, arms wrapping around me like a soft place to land. And for a moment, I let myself fall. "Anh hiểu mà. Anh hiểu." (I know, em. I know.)