The air in the waiting room of Dr. Tuoi's clinic was so heavy it felt as if it could be sliced into pieces. The scent of disinfectant mingled with the damp mustiness of the old walls, seeping into every layer of clothing, every breath. The cramped space, under the sallow yellow light, only made everything feel more somber.
Quyen sat on a wooden folding chair near the door, her hand resting unconsciously on her belly, where a fetus had been growing for several months. A tiny seed of life was taking shape within her.
Beside her, Hoa—her former student—sat huddled, her face streaked with tears. In just a few more minutes, she would have to step into that other room, a place where a soul would be eternally denied the chance to be born.
Quyen glanced at Hoa. The girl had barely said a word all morning. Her fingers just kept twisting the hem of her shirt, her eyes staring blankly into the distance. Quyen could see the panic in her, but she also knew that at this point, no one was giving her another choice.
In a corner of the room, two or three other women sat in a daze. Each had her own reason for being here.
"Menstrual regulation." "Pregnancy termination."
The cold phrases echoed in hushed whispers, like labels affixed to the pain of women pushed to the edge. One woman hid her face, her hand clutching a small handkerchief as if, should she let go, she herself would collapse. Another silently caressed her belly, her distant gaze filled with remorse. Many avoided eye contact, as if sympathy would only make the pain more real. In this thick, suffocating atmosphere, every passing minute felt heavier than the last.
Remembering the path that led her to the clinic, Quyen felt a pain in her heart, like the twisting of a knife.
Hoa had come to her this morning. The girl's face was gaunt, her eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Her thin frame stirred a deep pity in Quyen. Hoa had stood outside the door for a long time before she finally whispered, "Teacher… my family is forcing me to 'take care of it' this week. My boyfriend has also abandoned his responsibility. I… I'm truly at a dead end."
Hoa's choked words made Quyen see her own reflection. She, too, was trapped with the child in her womb—the result of a single moment of weakness with Thanh. Though she had leaned toward the decision to keep the child, the fear and anxiety about the future still besieged her every day.
And yet, Hoa's situation was even more desperate. The girl was only eighteen. Forced by her family. Abandoned by her boyfriend. No one had given her a chance to choose. Quyen knew she couldn't change Hoa's decision, but she couldn't bear to leave her alone. Despite knowing how terrifying this place was, she had agreed to come with her. Because at least, in this horrifying moment, Hoa would not be by herself.
Now, sitting in the waiting room, Quyen looked at Hoa, then down at her own belly. She hadn't told Hoa the real reason she was here. The girl simply thought she had come to comfort and support her. But in truth, Quyen was also standing at a crossroads.
Between keeping and letting go. Between facing the truth and running from it.
She had come here to find an answer for herself. Was stepping through that door the only option for women who had made a mistake? Was there no other path? She didn't know. She only knew that with every passing second, her heart grew heavier.
And then, the door to the procedure room creaked open. A nurse stepped out, her voice flat as she called a name: "Hoa."
The room fell silent. Hoa stood up, trembling. Quyen felt her own body freeze. She watched Hoa's small figure walk toward the gaping doorway. A choice had been made.
But what about her? Would she go on, or would she stop?
Her hand, resting on her belly, tightened. She knew she would soon have to make her own decision. And she was afraid, so terribly afraid.
Hoa looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, searching for comfort in Quyen's gaze. But then she lowered her head, letting the tears fall in silence. Quyen was no better. She sat motionless, her mind reeling. The oppressive feeling in the waiting room made it hard to breathe, each inhale feeling as if an invisible hand were squeezing her chest.
Her eyes swept over the other women in the room—their sallow faces, the dark circles under their eyes from sleepless nights, their hands unconsciously cradling their abdomens as if trying to justify what they were about to do. Every woman here had a story, a reason. But the common thread was that they all carried a life that was about to be denied. The air was so cold it could peel the pain from their very skin, and Quyen shivered.
Occasionally, Dr. Tuoi would emerge from the procedure room to call another name. Her voice was light and indifferent, as if she were calling a patient in for a common cold. A few women would stagger to their feet and enter the closed room. The door would shut. A while later, they would walk out, their faces pale. Some would wince in pain; others would try to swallow their sobs, but their red-rimmed eyes betrayed what had just happened.
A tremor ran through Quyen. This wasn't her first time seeing Dr. Tuoi. The doctor was "famous" in the region, willing to deliver babies or… perform abortions, depending on the patient's choice. She remembered the times Ngoc had come here, the times Dr. Tuoi had "taken care of" things for countless women. Some left with gratitude that their secrets were kept. Others resented her for the high price. But in the end, they all came back, because they had nowhere else to turn.
Just like Quyen now. She had come here not just to accompany Hoa, but to find an answer for herself.
On a table, a stack of procedure consent forms sat neatly. The paper was pristine white, but for those who put their pen to it, it signified the end of a tiny life. She had thought about this for days.
"If I get rid of it, maybe things won't be so complicated. Thanh and Ngoc will never know; the secret will be kept. I can go on being a normal teacher, and no one will suspect a thing."
A simple decision. A secret that could be buried forever. This morning, while bringing Hoa, she had discreetly inquired about the "regulation" procedure for herself. It was all terrifyingly easy. Just lie down, close her eyes, and in a few minutes, her life would go back to the way it was.
No one would know. No one would question her. No one would look at her differently.
But… would she truly go back to the way she was?
Quyen took a shaky breath, her hand tightening on her belly. It felt as if the life inside her was stirring, a faint plea: "Mother, I've done nothing wrong. Please, don't give up on me."
The imaginary words twisted around her nerves, exhausting her. Dr. Tuoi could do it quickly, cleanly. But what about her? Could she endure the haunting? When the physical pain faded, would the remorse disappear? Or would it remain an invisible wound, bleeding for the rest of her life?
The air was thick, suffocating. Time crawled by, agonizingly slow. With every passing moment, Quyen's heart hammered against her ribs.
And then, the moment came. Dr. Tuoi stepped out, her voice a monotone drone: "Hoa."
The sound was like a gavel striking the door of her conscience. Quyen flinched. Hoa stood up in fear, her hands crumpling the hem of her shirt. She turned to Quyen, her eyes desperate, as if searching for one last glimmer of hope. But Quyen couldn't say a thing. She couldn't advise Hoa to keep the child, because she didn't even know if she dared to keep her own. She couldn't tell Hoa to reconsider, because she herself was sitting there with a consent form she had secretly slipped into her bag. Quyen had never felt so small, so conflicted.
Hoa walked in. The procedure room door closed. An awful silence descended again. Quyen clenched her hands, trying to stop the tremors that wracked her body. If Dr. Tuoi calls my name now… would I stand up? Do I really want to give up this child?
In her mind, the small voice echoed once more: "Mother, please don't give up on me."
A tear fell, splashing onto the paper on the table. She didn't know the answer. She only knew her heart was breaking with every beat.
Hoa jumped as the doctor called her name. She staggered to her feet, her legs trembling as if they had lost all strength. In that instant, her eyes sought out Quyen's—a fragile ray of hope, a final salvation.
Quyen grasped Hoa's hand, feeling the small fingers desperately squeezing hers. She wanted to say something, to hold her back, to plead with her to think just a little longer.
Don't do it!
And then, all courage vanished. Her throat closed up. The words were swallowed before they could form, as if someone had clamped a hand over her mouth. Because she knew, Hoa had no other choice.
Forced by her family. Abandoned by her lover. What else could an eighteen-year-old girl do but walk through that door?
Hoa gently released Quyen's hand, a touch as light as a thread but as heavy as a thousand pounds. Then she trudged inside, her small figure lost in the waiting room thick with the smell of antiseptic.
The door shut. A dreadful silence enveloped everything. Quyen's heart hammered, as if she had just lost something precious. She bowed her head, her trembling fingers clutching the paper in her hand. In that moment, nausea rose in her throat, her chest felt crushed, and her breath came in ragged gasps. She had to lean against the cold wall behind her to steady herself.
On the bench opposite, a middle-aged woman had just come out of the procedure room. Her eyes were empty, as if her soul had been drained away. She clutched her abdomen, her pale lips trembling, a soft moan of pain escaping.
Quyen bit her lip hard.
"Is this a place to solve 'problems'… or a slaughterhouse for souls who never had a chance to cry?"
The thought tightened its grip on her chest, nearly suffocating her.
She didn't know how much time had passed. Every time the procedure room door opened, her heart leaped, only to see another person's story unfold. And then, finally… the door opened for Hoa.
She walked out. Or rather, she dragged her feet, each step a heavy burden.
Her face was ashen. Her eyes were soulless, terrifyingly empty. Tears streamed down her face, but she made no sound. It was as if she had cried until her very soul was dry.
Hoa's legs buckled, and she nearly fell. Quyen rushed forward, catching her by her thin shoulders, pulling her trembling body into a tight embrace. She could feel Hoa's ragged, shallow breaths, her back soaked with sweat.
"It's… over… Teacher…" Hoa's voice was a thready whisper, so faint it barely seemed to be hers.
Just three words, but to Quyen, they sounded like a long, desperate sigh. She swallowed hard, trying to call her name: "Hoa…" But she didn't know what to say next. What was there to say? How could one comfort a girl who had just endured the greatest tragedy of her life? Quyen had no answer.
The local anesthetic would wear off, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the spiritual torment. The feeling of losing a life within you, knowing there was no turning back, was like having a piece of your own flesh torn away. Quyen dared not imagine what Hoa had gone through in that room. But she knew that feeling would haunt her for the rest of her life. And if she continued down this path, she would become just like Hoa.
She looked into Hoa's eyes, which were empty and pleading, but what was there left to cling to now?
It was done. There was no way to turn back time. No miracle could undo it.
The world tilted before Quyen's eyes. She stood there, still holding Hoa, but her mind drifted to a distant place. She saw Hoa—the student who was once so bright and innocent in class, now gaunt and broken by the harsh turns of a young woman's life.
Her throat tightened, and her tears flowed inward. And then, in this waiting room thick with sorrow, she heard a voice rise from the depths of her heart.
"I can't repeat this mistake. I can't."
Quyen looked down at Hoa, but for a moment, she saw her own reflection. If she walked through that door, she would become Hoa. She would be a woman who walked out with soulless eyes. A trembling body, faltering steps, a soul hollowed out by the loss of what was most precious. A woman who would live with the haunting for the rest of her days.
She didn't want that. She couldn't.
No matter how great this secret was, no matter how uncertain the future, she could not let the child in her womb suffer the same fate.
Quyen clenched her hand, her breath catching in her throat. The consent form was still on the table. But now, it was no longer an option for her.
She looked at Hoa one last time. She would not follow this path. Whatever happened, she would keep her child.
As she was supporting Hoa, a voice cut through the air: "Quyen! Do you need my help?"
Quyen flinched, her head snapping up. It was Dr. Tuoi. She stood in the doorway of the procedure room, holding a medical file, her sharp eyes darting toward Quyen. The professional smile was still on her lips, but under the sallow light, a flicker of suspicion crossed her eyes.
A chill ran down Quyen's spine, her heart pounding so loud she was sure it could be heard. The consent form was still in her hand—proof of an intention she had not yet acted upon.
Beneath her touch, Hoa gasped for breath, her thin fingers clutching Quyen's arm. Though she said nothing, her desperation was palpable in every gesture. Instinctively, Quyen lifted Hoa's face, touching her tear-streaked eyes. A wave of pity washed over her. In a fleeting second, she turned to Dr. Tuoi. She couldn't let anyone know what she had been planning.
Before she could think, she quickly shoved the paper into her handbag, her fingers gripping the strap as if she were afraid it might fall out at any moment. She swallowed hard, regaining her composure, and shook her head slightly.
"It's nothing, Tuoi. I was just bringing my old student in for a check-up."
Dr. Tuoi narrowed her eyes, her gaze lingering as if trying to probe deeper. But Quyen didn't give her the chance. She gently squeezed Hoa's shoulder, helped her to her feet, and silently walked away without another word.
Stepping out onto the porch, the cold wind hit her face, but she still felt suffocated. Hoa continued to tremble in waves, the anesthetic not yet worn off, each step like a deep cut into her body. And Quyen—she was trembling too. But it was from fear, from emotion, from her own hasty actions.
She took a deep breath, letting the outside air rush through her thin shirt, trying to calm herself. Inside her handbag, the consent form lay still. A decision unmade. A secret she would never let anyone know.
Keeping this child… Meant accepting a future full of turmoil. Meant facing the truth. Meant enduring gossip, whispers, and judging eyes. Meant that Thanh and Ngoc might resent her, or that she might have to leave and go somewhere else.
But at least, she hadn't let herself collapse before a cruel choice.
The sparse traffic passed by, the sounds of daily life returning, waking her from the oppressive world inside. The ground before her seemed to stretch out endlessly, but in Quyen's eyes, it was tinged with a somber hue.
She pressed her lips together, reassuring herself: "I have to be strong. I will keep my child, no matter how hard it is. At all costs."
Clutching Hoa's hand, she whispered silently: "Forgive me, Hoa… Forgive me for not being brave enough to stop you."
There was no reply. Hoa bowed her head, her sobs carried away by the wind.
Quyen walked slowly toward the parking area, her heart aching.
She knew… The road ahead would not be smooth. But she had made her own decision.
Resolute. Steadfast.
She would keep this child. And no matter the outcome, no matter how uncertain the future… She would face it.
It was not just a debt of conscience. It was the beginning of a new journey— A journey into motherhood, amidst a thousand storms.