The mountain wind shrieked through the cracks of the wooden door, carrying the biting cold of the highland night. In the small rented room, Quyen sat silently on the edge of her bed, her weary eyes fixed on the wavering darkness. The faint light of an oil lamp cast flickering shadows on the walls—shadows that seemed to dance to the chaotic rhythm of her heart. That mad thought—to ask Thanh to help her have a child—had clung to her for days, a ceaseless, churning undertow. It was at once terrifying and seductive, a transgression and yet the last glimmer of hope to soothe the loneliness that had gnawed at her for so many years.
She remembered Ngoc once saying, her voice full of love, "We'll probably have more children. It's difficult, but we still want a big family." Those words, careless as a passing breeze, had fanned a burning desire within Quyen. A wild idea crept into her mind: What if I asked them for a child? Just one, so she could hear a little voice call out, "Mama," so she would no longer have to face the long, desolate nights alone. She knew the thought was wrong, knew it could destroy everything—their friendship, her self-respect, and Ngoc's happiness. But the more she tried to push it away, the tighter it held on, making her heart hammer, torn between shame and an irrepressible longing.
Early the next morning, Quyen sat quietly by the window of the coach, her sorrowful eyes watching the undulating mountain ranges recede into the distance. The vehicle trembled gently on the winding mountain pass, and the pale morning sun filtered through the glass, illuminating her pensive face. Around her, the other teachers chattered excitedly about the award ceremony for outstanding educators, but Quyen barely heard them, her mind drifting to a distant place. A question buzzed in her head: Will I dare to tell Thanh? Will he think I'm insane?
She pressed her forehead against the cold glass and took a long breath, trying to calm the turmoil inside. The idea felt reckless, like walking a thin wire suspended over a deep chasm. If she remained silent, she would live forever in regret, embracing her solitude until the end. But if she spoke, she could lose Thanh, Ngoc, and the dignity she had preserved for so many years. She bit her lip, her hands clenching the hem of her shirt, her heart a tangled mess.
Thanh sat a few rows away, gazing pensively out the window. He took no part in his colleagues' lively conversations, his thoughts solely on Ngoc and their two children at home. Little Son was mischievous, and Tien was still so small; Ngoc was surely struggling to manage them now. He remembered his wife's gentle gaze, the sound of Son's crisp laughter, and a sudden weight settled in his chest. He knew Quyen carried a silent sadness, but he never imagined that sorrow could drive her to such a brazen proposal.
That evening, the delegation of teachers was lodged at the guesthouse of the Department of Education. Each had their own room, separated by a long, silent corridor. Quyen entered her spartan room and surveyed the four cold, whitewashed walls. An award ceremony like this should have brought joy, but for her, everything felt muted. Only a suffocating loneliness remained, a thick shroud she could not cast off.
The celebratory banquet was brief, filled with formal speeches and the cheerful clinking of glasses. Afterwards, most of the teachers went for a stroll downtown to enjoy the modest bustle of the provincial town. A few colleagues managed to drag Thanh out for a few drinks, but he only took a few sips before excusing himself. He disliked the taste of alcohol and the boisterous jokes. In his heart, the image of Ngoc and his children was an anchor, compelling him to stay sober.
Quyen had intended to go back to her room, but a gnawing restlessness kept sleep at bay. She lingered in the lobby, her eyes quietly watching the small garden behind the guesthouse. The pale yellow light of a streetlamp fell upon the trees, and a gentle breeze carried the faint scent of flowers. She leaned against a pillar, her heart heavy, wondering if this was her last chance to say what had been tearing her apart.
When Thanh returned, his face was faintly weary, but he offered his familiar smile when he saw her. "Quyen? Still awake?" he asked, his voice sincere. "It's dull here. Would you like to take a short walk with me?"
Startled, Quyen quickly nodded. The two of them walked out into the small courtyard beside the guesthouse, beneath an old flame tree where only the chirping of insects could be heard. The provincial town was a world away from their quiet village, and the muffled sounds of traffic echoing from the distant streets made them both feel like strangers.
Thanh folded his arms, his gaze distant. "If only Ngoc were here with us," he said, his voice low. "At home, she's run off her feet with the two kids."
Quyen smiled, but her heart constricted. Thanh's innocent words had struck her deepest wound, and the thought resurfaced, stronger than ever. She knew this was a rare opportunity—no prying eyes, no invisible barriers. If she didn't speak now, she never would.
Her hand trembled as she lightly touched his. "Thanh… I need to tell you something. It's very important," she said, her voice catching.
Thanh turned, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He sensed the gravity in her tone, as if she were standing on the precipice of a life-altering decision. The night wind blew a few stray strands of hair across her forehead, making her face look both exhausted and filled with an unnamable pain.
She bit her lip, took a deep breath, and finally uttered the words. "I… I want a child. Can… can you help me?"
Thanh froze, as if struck by an invisible blow. The color drained from his face, but he forced a weak smile, his voice faltering. "You mean… adoption? You want to adopt a child from an orphanage or…?"
Quyen shook her head, her voice trembling. "No. I want… a child with you. But it would be a secret."
She paused, looking deep into his eyes, then continued, each word weighing a thousand pounds. "I know you and Ngoc want more children. I've thought about this so much. I'm so lonely, Thanh. I'm getting older, and there's no one left for me. If you help me, I promise, this will stay between us. Ngoc will never be hurt. I'll raise the child myself, or we can figure something else out if you want. I just need a child of my own blood."
The air between them turned to ice. Thanh stared, his mind reeling. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He searched Quyen's eyes for a hint of a joke but found only absolute seriousness mingled with desperation.
A storm raged inside him. He cared for Quyen, the woman who had devoted her youth to this remote land, who had been like family to him and Ngoc. He knew her loneliness, knew the opportunities that had passed her by, knew the maternal ache that tormented her. But what she proposed was a profound betrayal. He was Ngoc's husband, the father of Son and Tien. He could not betray his family; he could not do something so fundamentally wrong.
"Quyen… what are you saying?" Thanh recoiled, his voice trembling. "I… I have a wife and children. You know that. How could I…"
Quyen grabbed his hand, her eyes welling with tears. "I know, Thanh. I know this is wrong, that it sounds insane. But I have no other way. I cry every night, thinking about growing old, thinking about a life alone, with no husband, no child. You're my only hope. You won't have to be responsible. I just need a chance to be a mother."
Thanh felt his chest tighten. An image of Ngoc appeared before him—her gentle smile, her busy hands soothing their children, her warm voice calling him home for dinner. He couldn't imagine hurting her, destroying the home they had built. But here stood Quyen, her eyes pleading, her tears held back by sheer will. Pity for her, loyalty to his wife, and his own moral compass swirled together, leaving him at an impossible crossroads.
Thanh exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples, trying to find the words to refuse. But Quyen, as if sensing his hesitation, spoke softly. "Let's… go to my room. We can talk more clearly there."
He staggered after her into the small room, where the dim yellow light made the air feel even more suffocating. Quyen led him to a chair, her hands shaking. The lingering traces of alcohol mixed with the warmth radiating from her body, causing Thanh's resolve to fray. He wanted to say no, wanted to leave, but Quyen's eyes—both desperate and intense—held him captive.
She moved closer, placing her slender hands on his shoulders. "Thanh… I'm begging you. Just this once," she whispered, her voice hoarse. The moment their skin touched, Thanh felt her burning, all-consuming desire. He wanted to push her away, but the alcohol and the tempest of emotions raging within him turned his protests into meaningless, choked sounds.
The space seemed to compress, leaving only the sound of ragged breaths. Quyen buried her face in his shoulder, her salty tears falling onto his skin, a bitter tribute for them both. Thanh, caught in the throes of his inner conflict, felt a scream of guilt in his mind. He thought of Ngoc, of Son's babbling calls for "Ba," of Tien, still so new in her mother's arms. But before him was Quyen—the sister he had always respected—revealing a vulnerability he had never seen. She didn't want love or a title, only a child to fill the void in her life.
Thanh's embrace grew stronger, as if he were being pulled into an irresistible current. He forgot Ngoc, forgot his family; all that existed was the woman before him, who needed him. Quyen responded, their breaths mingling, their movements at once hurried and hesitant. In an instant, the line of morality was obliterated as their bodies merged, creating a fierce, shuddering vibration of both longing and anguish. A choked sob mingled with a fervent breath. When the climax subsided, the room was thick with the scent of skin and damp cold, a ragged silence replacing all words.
It lasted only a few minutes, but it was enough to mark a point of no return. They lay motionless, listening to each other's unsteady breaths, and in that stunned moment, they both understood they had just crossed the forbidden line—a single time, but enough to alter their fates forever.
Quyen sat silently on the edge of the bed, tears streaming down her face. She had just shattered the moral code that had bound her for years. But deep inside, a fragile hope had been kindled—the hope for a child, a life that could save her from her loneliness. She wiped her tears and managed a faint, ghost of a smile. "I'm sorry… if I made you do something foolish. But thank you. I'll keep it a secret. Just be calm. Whatever happens… will happen."
Thanh straightened his clothes, his gut twisting. A wave of guilt surged through him, drowning him in remorse. He thought of Ngoc, of her eyes as he left the village, of her gentle reminder, "Come home soon to us." He had betrayed her, betrayed his children, and betrayed his own conscience. He took Quyen's hand, a gesture that was neither comfort nor torment. "I… I don't know what to say. I… I was wrong," he whispered, his voice trailing off.
He stood and walked to the door, but his feet felt rooted to the floor. The image of his family was crystal clear, but superimposed over it was the face of Quyen—the sister he cherished, who had just pulled him across a line from which there was no return. He rubbed his temples fiercely, trying to erase the memory, but it was a knife's edge carved into his mind. He knew, from this moment on, he would have to live with this torment, whether he spoke of it or buried it in silence.
Quyen rose, her trembling figure disappearing behind the closing door. She stepped into the corridor, the cold wind hitting her skin like a reminder of the reality that awaited. She didn't know what would come—a child or a cruel wave that would drag them all into the abyss. But she had chosen this path, and though she was steeped in sin, she did not regret it.
The next morning, they would stand on a stage to be honored, to receive their awards amidst applause. To the world, they would still be dedicated, respectable teachers. But behind that placid facade lay a single night that had changed everything. Thanh stared out the window, the pale streetlights seeming to mock him. He took out his phone and opened a picture of his family—Ngoc smiling radiantly, Son hugging his neck, Tien sleeping peacefully in her mother's arms. A single tear rolled down his cheek, but he wiped it away quickly, terrified someone might see.
Quyen returned to her room and sat at the desk, her hand shaking as she opened a small notebook. She wrote a few lines, a confession to herself:
Today, I did something wrong. But I had no other choice. If I have a child, I will spend my entire life loving it, to atone for this sin.
She closed the notebook as a tear fell onto the page, smudging the fresh ink.
Outside, the provincial night remained still. The distant hum of traffic was not enough to erase the emptiness in their hearts. The undertow had begun, and no one knew where it would take them—to a shore of peace or to a chasm of suffering. Only one thing was certain: they had stepped across the forbidden line, and from this moment on, their lives would never be the same.