The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on our small village, turning the dirt roads into ribbons of dust that clung to everything—clothes, skin, hope. I crouched in the yard behind our tiny house, gathering dried twigs and branches for the cooking fire, my hands rough and calloused from a decade of work that never seemed to end.

“Mama?”I looked up to find my son standing in the doorway, his small frame silhouetted against the dim interior of our home. At ten years old, Minh had his father’s eyes—dark and searching, always looking for answers I couldn’t give him.

“Yes, baby?”

He stepped out into the sunlight, squinting slightly. “Why don’t I have a father like the other kids at school?”

The question landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through years of carefully constructed defenses. I’d known it would come eventually. Children always ask the questions we most dread answering.

“Come help me with these branches,” I said, deflecting as I always did, gathering more kindling though I already had enough.