\u201cI don\u2019t even know where in the city he lives,\u201d I admitted. \u201cJust that it\u2019s near the financial district. That could be anywhere.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother clutched my hand. \u201cOh, Hanh. What are we going to do?\u201d<\/p>\n
The whispers turned to open mockery by my sixth month. I was harvesting rice in a neighbor\u2019s field\u2014needing the money, unable to stop working despite my condition\u2014when a group of women passed by.<\/p>\n
\u201cShameless,\u201d one of them said loudly enough for me to hear. \u201cPregnant and unmarried. What would her grandmother think?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHer grandmother is probably rolling in her grave,\u201d another replied.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo respectable man will touch her now. She\u2019ll be alone forever.\u201d<\/p>\n
I kept my head down, kept working, kept moving. Because stopping meant acknowledging their words, and acknowledging them meant letting them win.<\/p>\n
Someone started throwing garbage in front of our house. Rotting vegetables, torn paper, once even a dead rat. My father cleaned it up without comment, but I could see the shame weighing on him, aging him years in a matter of months.<\/p>\n
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