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Is This the Most Lovely Love Story?


reading illustration by Alessandra Olanow

reading illustration by Alessandra Olanow

My dad and mom’ first assembly is delusion to me. Mother talks about how Dad discovered his technique to her on a university campus in Saigon, light-years away from their hometown on the Mekong Delta, the place floating markets bobbed on the water. They’d seen one another round, however hadn’t spoken till that day. Mother was finding out within the courtyard when he stopped by her desk, all bravado and crooked smiles.

“Don’t I do know you?” he requested.

She tossed her head. “Anh, your dad has been pals with mine for many years.”

He laughed, then leaned over her pocket book to doodle within the margins. He didn’t draw a coronary heart in her pocket book; he drew apricot flowers. The tiny buds of luck. If Mother discovered herself fortunate to have such a good-looking man’s consideration, she didn’t say it. She watched him, fascinated. Cautious.

“You want studying?” he requested, his gaze sliding beneath these darkish lashes.

When she nodded, he took that as an invite. He sat down on the bench throughout from her and got here again daily, bringing his personal books. They’d learn till the solar set, then every would go to their very own dorm rooms. By the point their course ended, they returned to their hometown, inseparable.

Mother talks about how unusual it was to maneuver, after they married, into the highest flooring of his people’ house, figuring out she was only some blocks away from her circle of relatives. She missed the best way her sister would zoom her scooter into the drive at nightfall, dragged down by dessert bins from her pastry lessons. How her teenage brother would gallop into the kitchen, his naked toes slapping the tiles like a duck’s. In her new house, every little thing smelled totally different. Nothing felt like consolation.

However then Dad let her in on his secret. He confirmed her the trunk on the foot of their mattress. At first, she considered treasure, gold cash winking within the dim gentle of the room. But it surely was higher than that. He had hardcover books stacked within the trunk, every separated by tissue paper. Poetry and journey tales; and romances, his secret vice. In public, he was a person about city. At house, with Mother, he was a reader. Her bleeding-heart romantic.

“Are these books all yours?” she’d requested. Her fingers itched to discover.

“They’re ours,” he mentioned. Then he pressed a key into her hand. He saved its mate in his personal pocket.

I by no means thought to ask why anybody would lock up books. In my home now, there are books in each room, free for the taking. However again then, they had been probably a luxurious for my dad and mom. Books, a treasure they discovered value defending. And late every evening, even after Dad began disappearing and failing to come back house, Mother unlocked the trunk. She received out one other novel. She learn till the lamplight light. To her, these books had been a promise of one thing sacred between the 2 of them; an unconditional bond that was extra elusive than love. Even after he reworked from that candy scholar into a person who might stab a knife by means of a door in rage, a person who would burn bins of child pictures out of spite, the books represented the promise prolonged, and prolonged, till it lastly broke.

Their marriage ended quickly after I used to be born. Then Mother and I spirited ourselves internationally, to a yawning beachside city in Florida, and we not often spoke to Dad once more. I ponder what occurred to her key, whether or not, like her first wedding ceremony ring, she retains it hidden away in her pajama drawer. Or whether or not it stayed with Dad within the first house they shared, dusted over and forgotten.


One evening, once I was seven, I discovered a secret house at my grandparents’ home in Florida, the place Mother and I lived. Within the visitor room, there was an empty closet with a single lightbulb. If I waited till everybody was asleep, I might sneak into the closet, hauling a pillow and blanket, and change on the sunshine.

I used to be a comparatively new reader at seven. However as soon as I discovered, I couldn’t cease. My backpack sagged with books I grabbed from the library. First got here image books, then chapter books. Someday, novels with phrases I needed to lookup. If the books ran out, I salvaged my grandfather’s newspapers from the trash. In my secret closet, I learn till my eyes drooped. Most of the time, I fell asleep within the closet and needed to scramble to my very own room earlier than the world stirred.

One morning, I didn’t wake in time. I might hear my household calling my title. Their footsteps had been shut, thunderous.

“I’m right here,” I mentioned, crawling out of the closet. Sheepish. They noticed the pillow and the blanket, the strewn books.

My grandmother pinched me on the arm, laborious. I frightened it might go away a bruise, one I’d should cowl with a sweater, even within the warmth of a Florida spring. “You haven’t any frequent sense. Scaring us. Scaring your mom. For these silly books of yours!”

However Mother, surprisingly, wasn’t offended in any respect. Standing within the doorway, her hair tousled, she rubbed her arms as if to protect herself in opposition to unseen chilly. Because the years handed, her anger had turn into fierce; it rose like a dragon, then sailed with the wind. I by no means knew when she would possibly yell. However that day, her face was calm. If I appeared intently, I might even see her hiding a smile.

She purchased me a guide gentle later that week.


Over time, Mother snuck books into my room like contraband. My grandparents didn’t consider in spending cash on luxurious gadgets. I hid them beneath the mattress, inside the pockets of my backpack. As soon as, Mother drove to a neighboring metropolis with a three-story library and paid the $20 price to get me a card. She hadn’t realized that non-residents needed to pay additional, and she or he grumbled the entire drive again. “$20 is one hour on my toes on the restaurant, together with suggestions.” However each Saturday, with out fail, she drove the 40 minutes to the library for my books.

Mother remarried once I was 10, and we moved into a brand new house with my stepfather. Lastly, I might purchase books every time I wished. We received new cabinets to carry all of them. After I turned 15, I received my learner’s allow; I drove straight to the Books-a-Million, ordered an Italian cream soda, and minced up and down the aisles till the shop closed.

After I moved out for school, Mother puzzled what to do with all my books. I’d by no means identified her to be a reader — I couldn’t think about her studying something longer than Bon Appetit or the occasional Us Weekly in line at Publix. I don’t bear in mind her studying to me, both, however reminiscence is fallible. I believe I felt some pity for her. To have by no means liked books was, to me, a terrific loss.

“I might preserve your books for you,” she provided.

“Simply give them away,” I mentioned.

“However what about your youngsters? Someday they’ll need Mama’s books.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll purchase them new books.”


Today, my husband and I’ve a nightly argument with our five-year-old daughter. We’re all in pajamas, huddled in mattress by the electrical fire. She holds a bookmark excessive within the air, wailing.

“Only one extra chapter,” she pleads. “In the event you give me another chapter, I’ll do something you need.”

Her lips draw right into a pout and her lashes bat. A charmer, like her misplaced grandfather. I’m struck by her phrasing. In the event you give me another chapter. She talks of phrases as a present to be exchanged. She’s not fallacious.

When my mother visited one Christmas, my daughter requested her to learn a bedtime story. Mother was hesitant, however unable to withstand. She stumbled over the phrases; English will not be her first language, and the cadence of youngsters’s books usually requires some settling in. She saved apologizing.

“Sorry, child, Grandma doesn’t learn a lot anymore.”

However she made it by means of the image guide, my daughter nestled into her lap, Mother’s chin resting on her head. After my daughter fell asleep, Mother informed me concerning the locked trunk filled with books in Vietnam. The person who held the keys.

“I take into consideration these books on a regular basis,” she mentioned.

I ponder if she implies that she thinks about him. I as soon as requested her why she stopped studying, however she didn’t have a solution to share. Time was a luxurious for her in America as a single mother, working lengthy hours at jobs that demanded a lot. Books written in Vietnamese weren’t as straightforward to seek out again then. And when she remarried, her new husband didn’t learn books in any respect. Their love language was motion, not phrases: fishing down on the pier within the peach-blush morning; sharing a halved cinnamon bagel on a park bench. And now? She nonetheless refuses my provides to ship her books written in Vietnamese. Maybe her love of studying received left behind, too, throughout the ocean with Dad.

We’re secret keepers; every coronary heart fitted with its personal lock. The lock’s form adjustments through the years. Typically, it may be opened by a person with a pencil in a flower-scented school courtyard; typically by a bit lady with batting eyelashes. Books are like that, too. They conceal, then reveal. They mud over. And typically they skip throughout time, throughout nations, leaving impressions as deeply grooved as knife-marks in wooden.

Thao Thai is a author and editor in Ohio, the place she lives along with her husband and daughter. Her debut novel, Banyan Moon, is forthcoming in 2023 from HarperCollins.

P.S. Studying in mattress, and three ladies on difficult mom/daughter relationships.

(Illustration by Alessandra Olanow for Cup of Jo.)




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