Fired for Helping an Old Woman in the Rain, the Poor Aide Never Guessed She Was the Billionaire’s Mother Who’d Change Her Life.

In the scorching afternoon heat, the dazzling sunshine over Saigon was abruptly replaced by a sudden, heavy downpour. Dark clouds rolled in, and the wind fiercely lashed curtains of rain and spray across the roads. The relentless drumming of rain on the glass roof of a luxurious downtown restaurant drowned out the soft music playing inside the lobby. Guests hurried in and out, some clutching umbrellas, others covering their heads with paper bags, most rushing to the waiting luxury cars by the curb.

Amidst this scene of wealthy chaos and haste, Lan, a small, delicate kitchen aide, was bent over, scrubbing the floor. Her eyes suddenly caught sight of the awning outside the glass door. An old woman in faded bà ba attire, her gray hair plastered to her head, stood huddled under the eaves. Her plastic sandals were worn, and water streamed down her drenched trouser legs. Her hands were clutched tightly, trembling, and her face looked gaunt; the driving rain made her squint.

Lan hesitated. In her mind echoed the words of her late grandmother: “When the rain falls, everyone gets wet just the same, rich or poor.” Lan glanced around: surveillance cameras peeked from the ceiling, the security guard stood stiffly by the entrance, and guests sat at their gleaming dining tables. She knew the rules strictly forbade allowing unfamiliar, non-patron individuals into the lobby, lest they trouble the esteemed guests. But seeing the soaked old woman, Lan’s heart ached. She took a deep breath, cast aside her worries, and quickly stepped outside, shielding her head from the rain. She spoke softly: “Grandmother, please come in and shelter for a moment. The rain is too heavy.”

The old woman looked up, her dim eyes showing a hint of surprise. Lan quickly took her arm and guided her into the lobby, water dripping rhythmically onto the bright, polished floor. Just then, Tín, the security guard on duty, immediately blocked their way. He waved his hand, his voice sharp: “No entry without a ticket! The restaurant regulations are clear.” Lan frowned slightly, pleading quietly: “Mr. Tín, she’s old and soaked outside. Just let her stay for a bit; she’ll leave when the rain stops.”

Tín shook his head, gripping his walkie-talkie tightly: “No! What if a guest sees her and complains? Who will the manager blame?” Lan insisted: “They might complain, but is it right to leave an old woman trembling out there?” Ignoring her, Tín pressed the button on his walkie-talkie, calling out: “Mr. Hảo, come down to the lobby immediately. An unauthorized person has entered.”

Within moments, Hảo, the restaurant manager, strode over. Impeccably dressed in a crisp white shirt and neat tie, his face was severe. He glared at the sight of the dripping old woman in the middle of the lobby, then turned his stern gaze on Lan: “Lan! Where do you think you are? This is a five-star restaurant! Our guests are all businesspeople and officials! How dare you bring such a dirty person in?”

The atmosphere instantly grew tense. A few guests started turning their heads, murmuring. Some shook their heads in annoyance, others sighed with pity. A passing waitress whispered: “Good heavens, Lan is so reckless!” Lan pressed her lips together. Her hands trembled slightly, but her eyes were firm. She stepped forward to shield the old woman, her voice louder than usual: “If you won’t let her stay, then fire me too!”

The air seemed to freeze, and the sound of the rain hitting the glass intensified. Hảo scoffed. Before he could speak further, a couple passing by sneered, dropping a hurtful comment: “Poor people are different; they don’t know any etiquette!” Lan felt a surge of anger but remained shielding the old woman, afraid she would be pushed out. Meanwhile, the frail old woman pulled her conical hat lower, concealing half her face. Her wrinkled hand tentatively reached into her pocket, pressing a button on a phone. The seemingly harmless old eyes held an unusual sharp gleam.

She raised the phone to her ear, her voice soft yet decisive, her eyes fixed on Lan as if simultaneously acknowledging and testing her. “I need to see the owner here right now.” The restaurant lobby buzzed as if a major event were unfolding, with murmurs spreading from the reception counter to the glass doors.

Lan was led upstairs, her trousers still dripping water, her hair clinging to her neck, her heart pounding relentlessly. The office door swung open, and the hum of the air conditioning was a cool, sharp contrast. Inside, Hảo sat stiffly behind the polished wooden desk, his tie tight around his neck, his eyes cold behind thin spectacles. Tín stood to one side, gripping his walkie-talkie, his face taut. In the hallway, the soaked old woman in bà ba sat quietly on a waiting chair, her shoulders slightly shivering from the cold.

Hảo pointed to the floor, his voice heavy as lead: “This place only serves high-class clients; we don’t need those who pity the poor. You are a cleaner; your job is only to clean.” Lan bit her lip to regain composure. The cold air seeped into her skin, but the rattling rain outside reminded her of the old woman’s trembling hands under the awning. She spoke slowly, fearing harshness would ruin everything: “Just sheltering from the rain, sir. She’s old and completely wet outside. Is it wrong for humans to shelter each other for a moment?” Hảo sneered: “The mistake is that you forgot where you are. This is a five-star restaurant. Guests pay not just for food but for the feeling of being served. A muddy, soaking person sitting in the lobby ruins our reputation!” Lan replied softly but firmly: “A reputation built on indifference… Is that truly sustainable, sir?” Hảo slammed his pen down on the table: “No need to argue. I am terminating your contract immediately. Hand over your uniform and leave before closing time.” Tín paused, a hint of awkwardness on his face, but stepped forward. “Follow me.” Lan looked up at Hảo one last time, intending to say something, then stopped. She turned and walked out.

In the brightly lit hallway, the old woman was still huddled. Seeing Lan emerge, she moved to stand up. Lan sighed, “Let’s go, Grandmother. The rain will stop eventually.” Tín followed. When the elevator opened, the damp, heavy scent of rain rushed in. Down in the lobby, word had spread. A few guests stood by the wall, talking in hushed tones: “That girl is foolish. Jobs aren’t easy to find. There are rules here, and compassion must be kept in the right place.” A middle-aged man with gray hair shook his head, seemingly regretting the young girl’s fate. A waitress carrying a tray of dishes rushed past Lan, her eyes glistening as if wanting to offer encouragement, yet afraid of being noticed.

Lan went to the counter to collect her things—a worn canvas bag containing meager possessions, a thin raincoat, a towel, and the untouched lunch box. She took off her name badge and neatly folded it. Tín professionally opened the glass door; rain splattered onto Lan’s collar. Lan turned to support the old woman’s arm: “Let’s stick close to each other, so we don’t catch a chill, Grandma.” The old woman nodded, her eyes observing Lan closely, as if memorizing her every feature. Hảo stood further inside, arms crossed, mouth set tightly. He subtly signaled Tín to lightly touch Lan’s shoulder, not forcefully, but enough to urge her towards the steps. The wind surged, plastering Lan’s clothes against her body, and rain poured down the steps, splashing everywhere. She guided the old woman to the edge of the awning, leaving space for people to pass. Suddenly, someone inside the lobby muttered half-jokingly, half-seriously: “In these times, people can barely take care of themselves, and she goes looking for trouble.” Lan didn’t reply. She took the thin raincoat from her bag and, hands trembling, draped it over the old woman’s shoulders. “It’s old, but it will block the wind. Please wear it.” The old woman looked down at the frayed plastic, her eyes welling up. From beneath her hat, her voice was raspy with cold: “You’re all wet, why give it to me?” “I can bear it, Grandma. You save your strength.” Tín stood pressed against the door frame, still holding his walkie-talkie. As he watched the scene, his throat went dry. Something felt different from previous incidents involving strangers. This kitchen aide, despite being fired, was supporting the old woman through puddles as if she were her own relative. He turned away, pretending to check the lock.

The old woman slowly straightened, adjusted her hat, and her wrinkled hand grasped Lan’s, squeezing gently. Her eyes, no longer those of a person sheltering from the rain, were suddenly warm and sharp. A gust of wind made Lan shiver. Her heart ached and felt light at the same time. It ached from being looked down upon for a simple act; it felt light because she had done what was necessary. In her mind, her grandmother’s voice seemed to echo: “Live with integrity; heaven sees everything.”

Inside, Hảo had his back turned, speaking angrily to someone on the phone. Lan suddenly felt all other sounds fade away. Before her were only the rain-streaked road and the trembling figure clinging tightly to her arm. She inhaled deeply, bent down, “I’ll take you to the bus stop down the street, Grandma. We’ll go when the rain eases a bit.” A black, shiny car pulled up to the curb, its red taillights reflecting on the wet ground. The driver didn’t step out, only rolled down the window for a quick glance before rolling it up again. Inside the lobby, a few new shift employees appeared. They looked at Lan, then at each other, their eyes mixing curiosity and reserve.

Lan turned and took the tiny towel from her bag, quickly wiping the rain from the old woman’s face. The action made the old woman freeze. From inside the hat’s rim, her aged eyes looked deeply at the girl, without blame or complaint, only confirming that there were still people in the world who put others before themselves. The rain suddenly intensified. Lan guided the old woman back a step to avoid the spray. Tín stood in the doorway, momentarily considering giving them the umbrella hanging in the corner, then hesitated. Finally, he took the umbrella and stepped out, handing it to Lan. “Take it for now. Whether you return it or not is up to you.” Lan looked startled, then nodded. “Thank you.” She opened the umbrella, covering the old woman first before sharing the rest of the space. The rain still soaked her back. The worn shoulder bag felt heavier. She looked back at the lobby one last time. The gleaming wood, the warm yellow ceiling lights, the suits, the evening dresses—all seemed to belong to another world. The old woman spoke softly, her words clearer than when they were under the awning: “This girl is completely different from the people around me.” Lan caught the full meaning of the comment. She squeezed the old woman’s hand, offering a tired smile. “Let’s go, Grandma. Every path has its stormy stretch, but there will be sunshine eventually.”

Lan walked quietly towards the end of the alley, her worn bag slung over her shoulder. The rain was still drizzling, and puddles reflected the dim yellow lights on the potholed road. As night fell, the air was heavy with the damp, earthy smell. By the eaves of the old rental rooms, wet clothes hung everywhere on steel wires, and the wind carried a stale, moldy odor. Lan opened her door with a rusty key; the wooden door creaked. Inside was only an old, rickety bed, a broken-winged fan, and a ceiling marked by leaks. Rain dripped onto a plastic basin with a sporadic rhythm. Lan put down her bag and gently helped Bà Bảy (Grandma Bảy) sit on the edge of the bed. Her clothes had dried thanks to the old raincoat, but her gray hair was still damp and stuck to her forehead. Lan quickly went to fetch a bowl of hot tea from the shop down the alley. Bà Bảy tried to stop her, but Lan smiled gently: “I’m used to cold rice, Grandma. Wait a moment, something warm will make you feel better.”

A little later, Lan returned, holding a steaming bowl of ginger tea for Bà Bảy, while she herself ate cold rice mixed with fermented salt. She ate casually, saying: “This is enough to fill me up. I’m used to it.” Bà Bảy watched, her heart aching. Despite the simple meal, Lan was cheerful, without a word of complaint. Bà Bảy gently took a tissue from her pocket, carefully drying the remaining dampness from Lan’s hair. Lan was startled but let her continue. The gesture made the cold room instantly warm with the feeling of family. “Where do you live, child?” Bà Bảy asked, her voice soft as if afraid to touch an old wound. Lan looked up, her eyes still bright but tinged with old sorrow. “My father died early. My mother worked hard, then also fell sick and passed away a few years ago. Now it’s just me. Luckily, I still have the strength to work for a living, just taking one day at a time.” Bà Bảy nodded quietly, feeling an indescribable compassion. The girl’s words were simple and held no resentment towards life.

From the nearby eatery, the sound of a TV drifted in. The news was showing a clip that a shipper had accidentally recorded—Lan shielding the old woman with a raincoat in front of the restaurant—and posted online. The image caught the attention of the neighbors. At the eatery, a few people pointed and whispered: “That girl is gutsy, defying the restaurant manager.” “Gutsy, what gutsy? Foolish, rather. She lost her job and now wants fame.” “But it is pitiful. Who would leave an old person out in the rain like that?” The screen displayed a continuous stream of comments. There was little praise and much cynicism: Only a fool would interfere. Just showing off, wanting to be famous. Only a few voices mentioned: Some people still have kindness.

Lan heard the whispers, her heart tightening, but she kept a smile on her face. She brought the hot tea closer to Bà Bảy’s hand. “Please drink it, Grandma, for warmth. I don’t see you as a burden. You can stay here with me for a few days if you want.” The simple, selfless words brought a lump to Bà Bảy’s throat. Her trembling hand tightly clasped Lan’s. In that moment, Bà Bảy saw in this girl what she had been looking for for a long time: genuine, unpretentious sincerity.

Outside, the rain gradually subsided, and the chirping of frogs began. Lan sat under the eaves, listening to the drops plopping into the plastic basin, her heart calmer after a day of storms. Next to her, Bà Bảy’s eyes shone with a strange light, as if she had just seen a ray of hope after years of detachment from life. In that dim rental room, an invisible bond sprouted, and as Bà Bảy squeezed Lan’s hand, she thought to herself: This is the person I have been looking for.

A few days later, Lan was back at the hospital, carrying a bag of fruit. Bà Bảy had suffered a mild fainting spell the previous night and was hospitalized. Pushing open the door of the shared room, Lan froze. Sitting by the head of the bed was a young man. He wore a simple, light-colored shirt and plain trousers, his hair neatly cut. On the small table was a steaming bowl of hot porridge. He carefully raised Bà Bảy’s head with a pillow, his voice gentle: “Grandma, eat a little to warm your stomach. It’s pork congee I just bought.” Bà Bảy smiled weakly. “Yes, my good grandson.”

Lan stood by the door, instinctively pausing. This image was entirely different from what she had imagined: a lonely old woman with no one by her side. A patient in the same room murmured admiringly: “It’s rare these days. Such a dutiful grandson. Many old people lie here for months and no one checks on them.” Lan felt relieved. At least Bà Bảy had family. Her burden of worry lightened.

Bà Bảy turned her head and saw Lan. “Lan, is that you? Come in, child. This is my grandson, Minh. He works in an office and comes to visit when he can.” Minh looked up, his eyes bright, a forced smile on his face. He nodded a greeting: “Hello, sister.” Lan replied softly: “Hello.” He set the bowl down, wiped the spoon with a tissue, and handed it to his grandmother. His movements were swift and familiar, suggesting long-time care. Lan sat in the empty chair, taking a bag of oranges from her pocket. “I bought some oranges, Grandma. Eat them to recover.” “Thank you, child.” Bà Bảy smiled gently and turned to her grandson: “This is Lan, who lives near our place. She’s been taking care of me a lot lately.” Minh looked at Lan for a moment longer, his eyes conveying more than just a greeting, as if probing. Lan felt slightly embarrassed and looked down, arranging the fruit. Bà Bảy added casually: “He’s my only grandchild. His parents passed away early. I raised him since he was small. He works in an office now. His salary isn’t much, but he’s very filial.” Hearing this, Lan felt a pang in her heart. She secretly looked at Minh’s hands—calloused but clean. His shirt was faded, and the collar slightly worn. His simple appearance made her believe Bà Bảy was not exaggerating. The patient next door chipped in: “Having a grandson like that is a great blessing.” Lan smiled faintly. Indeed, Bà Bảy was not as alone as she had thought.

Minh cleared the porridge bowl and stood up. “Rest now, Grandma. I’ll go buy some extra medicine.” He gave Lan a slight nod, his gaze the same—polite yet seemingly hiding something. Lan shivered slightly, wondering why he looked so intently. He walked out, his simple figure blending into the hospital crowd. Bà Bảy leaned her head back, seeing Lan still looking at the door, and smiled secretly: “He’s a good boy, don’t worry.”

The next day, Lan found herself in a high-rise building for a job interview. A letter had come, inviting her to apply for an “appropriate opportunity” after the incident. She was told to meet the HR manager—no fees, no catch. Lan, skeptical but desperate, came, neatly dressed in her best clothes.

In the meeting, she spoke earnestly about her experience and her commitment to integrity. She was offered a position as Assistant to the Service Block Manager at a different branch of the restaurant chain. The contract was clear: a living wage, full insurance. Everything was done according to SOP, so no one could complain.

Later that week, she was at the headquarters. She saw a familiar black car, and a rush of well-dressed people. Then, she saw the former manager, Hảo, standing quietly by the corner, his face pale, and Tín, the guard, looking serious in his newly tailored uniform, being led towards a classroom marked “Code of Conduct Training.”

Lan was then ushered into a spacious, sunlit office with a clear view of the city. Bà Bảy was sitting there, wearing a simple yet elegant gown, not the bà ba she had worn before. Beside her stood Minh, not in a faded shirt, but in a well-tailored suit that Lan recognized from the passing black car. The atmosphere was no longer that of a hospital room but of quiet, undeniable power.

Lan sat down, her hands trembling. She slowly spoke: “They called you ‘Chairwoman’ just now.”

Bà Bảy paused, then smiled faintly. “Ah, the people from my factory call me that out of affection.”

“So, you are…” Lan swallowed hard, her throat dry. “You are from the Già Dày company?”

Minh started to speak, but Bà Bảy silenced him with a look. She turned to Lan: “Don’t be upset, child. There are things I couldn’t say then. I was afraid that if I spoke too soon, you would feel awkward and avoid me.”

Lan heard this and felt a mixture of warmth and resentment. She remembered meeting Bà Bảy under the awning, soaked but quietly grateful. She remembered the nights in the hospital, Bà Bảy’s trembling hand holding hers, and her advice in the park: You can marry a poor man, as long as he is sincere. Bà Bảy always spoke like someone who had tasted life’s bitterness. But now, Lan saw luxury cars, her former manager bowing deeply, and expensive gift baskets—all of which suddenly cast a thin, uncomfortable shadow over those genuine, humble days. Lan looked deeply into Bà Bảy’s eyes. “Grandmother, who are you, really?” The question burst out, clear and sharp.

The room fell silent. Minh stood by the door, clutching a file, his eyes fixed on his grandmother. Bà Bảy placed her hands on her lap, taking a slow breath. The wrinkles on her forehead seemed to deepen. She knew this was the moment she could no longer sugarcoat things. Opposite her, Lan sat straight-backed, waiting for an answer that would change the course of her entire life.

Lan sat frozen, her hands tightly clasped. Since the word “Chairwoman” echoed outside the door, her mind had been racing. All the gossip from the neighbors, the whispers behind her back, now felt like knives twisting in her heart. That poor girl knows the grandson of a rich old woman. It will come out eventually. The scornful words felt true now. She couldn’t hold back; tears welled up, and Lan’s voice was choked: “I… I am not worthy of Minh. People will laugh at me. They will say I clung to money, that I sought a position. I can’t bear it.”

The room held its breath. Bà Bảy leaned against the pillow, her eyes gentle yet profound. She slowly placed her hand on Lan’s, her voice hoarse but warm: “My daughter, since I met you, I have never once thought about your social status. The most precious thing in this world is one’s heart. People with money and power cannot keep happiness if they don’t know how to love others. I cherish your integrity, not how much you have in your pocket.” Lan bit her lip, her heart still aching. Tears streamed down her cheeks, dropping onto her hands. She wanted to believe, but her entire life had been too familiar with disparity and judgmental gazes. How could a girl working in a cramped rental room enter the world of people like Bà Bảy and Minh?

In that instant, Minh, who had been standing silently by the door, quickly stepped forward. He looked at Lan for a long time, his gaze both determined and pained. Without another word, he unexpectedly knelt down before her.

The sound of him kneeling echoed in the room, startling Lan. Her eyes widened, her heart pounding. Minh looked up, his voice low, devoid of hesitation: “If you need proof, I want to marry you.”

Lan was stunned; her ears rang. She could only hear her own frantic heartbeat. That simple sentence felt like a storm that swept away all the barriers she had built to keep her distance. “Minh, what are you saying?” she stammered, unable to believe her ears. Minh didn’t look away, every word resolute: “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to think this was just a test by my mother. I want to be by your side, no matter who you are, no matter what people say. If I have to prove it, this is the only way. I want to marry you.”

Bà Bảy sat there, her eyes red, her hands clasped as if in prayer. She had waited for this moment for a long time, but it was her son’s sincerity that moved her to tears. Lan covered her face, tears streaming down. She didn’t know whether to be happy or afraid. Her heart swelled with happiness but was tinged with panic. She choked out, her voice trembling: “Are you saying this because your mother wants it, or because you truly mean it?” The small room seemed to sink into silence. Tea steam drifted from the table, mingling in the dim air, leaving behind a palpable tension. Everyone waited for Minh’s final answer.

The news about Lan spread faster than she could have ever imagined. In just one morning, the entire rental neighborhood buzzed with talk of the poor kitchen aide marrying the heir to a major corporation. Some gasped: “Lan has such good fortune! Marrying into wealth means no more worry about daily struggles.” Others sneered: “Fortune? She must have calculated cleverly to climb up. A poor girl suddenly catching the eye of the boss’s son—there’s no way that’s without a plan.” The rumors attacked her like small needles piercing Lan’s heart. She heard the whispers while shopping, and the curious, half-pitying, half-contemptuous glances when buying vegetables. Even the old women at the water stall remarked: “No one noticed her when she was a cleaner. Now she’s noticed only because of the boss’s chair.” Lan returned to her room, her heart heavy as stone. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her calloused hands. A wave of humiliation overwhelmed her. For years, she had lived honestly, worked hard, only hoping to pay the rent and her mother’s medicine. Yet now, people denied all of that, seeing her only through the lens of gold-digging.

That evening, Minh visited. Seeing Lan’s red eyes, he gently sat down beside her. Lan couldn’t hold it back and burst out the question: “Do you know what people outside are thinking? They say I’m clinging to you, that I’m changing my life because of you. I can’t take it anymore.” Minh didn’t answer right away. He put his arm around her shoulder, letting her lean on his chest. His voice was firm: “I don’t care what they say. I only need to know what I think, and I think you are the woman I want to hold hands with for the rest of my life.” Lan trembled, her tears wetting his shirt. These simple words, neither pretentious nor full of distant promises, immediately lightened her heart by half. She felt the definite strength in Minh’s embrace, completely different from the shaky judgment of public opinion outside.

Just then, Bà Bảy walked in. She paused for a moment, listening to her son’s words, her eyes misty, her mouth trembling slightly. All her life, she had never believed that wealth could secure happiness; only true affection was enough to bind people. Hearing her son speak those words, she felt more at peace than ever. Lan looked up at Minh, her eyes unusually determined. She took a deep breath, her voice firm: “I accept. But with one condition.” Minh raised an eyebrow. “What condition?” Lan looked straight into his eyes and spoke slowly: “We must live simply, like any ordinary couple. I don’t want to live in luxury; I don’t want people to say I depend on you for enjoyment. I only want us to build our own happiness, by ourselves.”

In that moment, the entire room was so quiet that one could clearly hear the pounding of a heart. Minh suddenly smiled, nodding without hesitation. “That’s what I want too.” Lan was speechless. His answer seemed to untie all the knots in her heart. Amidst the storm of public opinion, she realized she was not alone, and that love, built on empathy and simplicity, could not be shaken.

Lan and Minh’s wedding was not loud or extravagant, nor was it shaded by supercars or traversed by a long red carpet like the opulent weddings often seen in the news. It all took place in a small garden. The canopy was made of rustic bamboo, and colorful paper flowers, handmade by the women in the rental neighborhood, hung around. Warm yellow lights strung across twinkled like stars in the late afternoon. Lan wore a simple white áo dài, without elaborate jewelry, just a small flower tucked into her hair. Minh chose a light-colored suit, neat and tailored, just formal enough but still approachable.

They walked side by side, and the eyes of every guest focused on them. But what moved everyone was not their elegant appearance, but the sincerity radiating from the couple’s smiles and clasped hands. The guests were not the elite but neighbors, factory workers who worked with Lan, and Minh’s few old friends. Even Ms. Tư, the landlady, attended. They came not out of curiosity but to witness a love story that, after many storms, had finally found its anchor.

In the most solemn moment, Bà Bảy stepped up. She didn’t need notes, speaking only from her heart: “Wealth and poverty are only external appearances; humanity is the greatest asset. Today, seeing these two holding hands, with all the relatives gathered, my heart is completely at peace.” Her words moved many to tears. A few factory workers quickly wiped their eyes. Lan bowed her head, clutching Minh’s hand tightly. She briefly recalled the rainy scene from the day she first met Bà Bảy under the awning. Then, she had only seen a kind old woman; she never imagined that encounter would open up a whole new path for her life.

The wedding music began. Lan and Minh bowed to their guests, their eyes sparkling as if to say, “From here, we will walk forward together.” Lan was so moved that her eyes were red, but her smile was radiant. Minh gently wiped a tear from her cheek, without needing any more words.

Outside in the yard, it suddenly began to drizzle, but instead of worrying, everyone laughed. The raindrops, illuminated by the yellow lights, looked unusually glittering. Bà Bảy looked up, her eyes blurred by the moisture. She whispered to herself, “Thank heavens, now I can rest easy.”

That rain seemed to close a circle of fate. If rain once brought challenges and tears, today it bore witness to simple yet genuine happiness. From now on, Lan and Minh would embark on a new journey, not in luxury, but in a home full of love, where faith and kindness were the greatest assets.