ie ochtend koos ik ervoor om voor mezelf te leven.
En ik was van plan iets te doen dat hen tot in hun kern zou schokken.
Ik werd vroeger wakker dan in jaren. Buiten begon de stad te ontwaken: verkopers zetten hun karren neer, fietsen kwamen tot leven en de rivier glinsterde in het zachte gouden licht. Ik nam een slokje bittere oploskoffie en opende een leeg notitieboekje dat ik de avond ervoor had gekocht.
De eerste pagina was leeg. Net als mijn leven nu. Een schone lei.
Ik had er altijd van gedroomd om iets kleins te bezitten. Simpels. Van mijzelf. Een klein café, misschien. Of een rustige bloemenwinkel. Iets met warm licht en zachte muziek. Toen mijn man en ik jong waren, vertelde ik hem dat ik een theehuis aan de rivier wilde openen. Hij lachte en zei: « Alleen als je belooft te bakken. »
So that was it. I would use the money to open a tea house.
But not just any tea house.
A sanctuary. For women like me. Women forgotten by time and family. Women who had poured themselves out until there was nothing left. Women still full of stories, songs, and skill. A place where we weren’t burdens—but honored.Family vacation packages
The next three months were the hardest—and most beautiful—I’d ever worked.
I found a narrow, dusty shop for rent on a tree-lined street. It was old, falling apart, but charming—reminded me of old Saigon. I hired a local carpenter to fix the entrance. I painted the inside walls myself—soft lavender and cream. I bought used furniture and polished every piece until it shone. I named it Floating Clouds—a haven for drifting hearts.
The first day, only two people showed up: an elderly man wanting hot water for his noodles, and a teenage girl who sat silently with headphones, then left without ordering.
But I didn’t mind.
By the second week, word began to spread.
Not fast. But steady.
I served lotus tea in porcelain cups. Baked black sesame cookies with peanuts and palm sugar. Played old Trịnh Công Sơn records softly in the background. Outside, I placed a handwritten sign:
“Free tea for women over 60. You are seen. You are loved.”
Each day, more women came.
Some brought faded photographs of grandchildren. Others shared stories—of lost husbands, ungrateful children, dreams abandoned. We sat together, not just drinking tea, but offering pieces of ourselves to each other.Child-friendly pet care products
I began to smile again.
I began to feel alive again.
Then one day, something unexpected happened.
A Sunday. Late afternoon. I was arranging marigolds in a vase when I saw a familiar car pull up outside.
It was my son.
He got out slowly, looking unsure. His wife followed, holding their son’s hand. All three stared at the sign above the entrance.
I didn’t move.
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