Cambodia greeted her with heavy air and unfamiliar silence.
As Mi‑un stepped off the bus, the heat wrapped around her like a memory she had tried to forget. Dust clung to her shoes, and the cries of vendors echoed faintly down the road. In her arms, the child stirred, letting out a soft sound before falling asleep again.
She adjusted her grip and looked ahead.
At the end of the narrow path stood the house.
It was small, made of old wood, its walls worn by rain and time. The roof sagged slightly, and the steps creaked even before she touched them. Yet, there was something gentle about it—like it had been waiting.
Her grandmother's words echoed in her mind, clear as the day they were spoken:
"If you ever get married… and the world turns its back on you… come here."
Mi‑un let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"So this is it," she whispered.
She pushed the door open.
The inside smelled of aged wood and dust, mixed with something warm—memories, perhaps. Sunlight filtered through small cracks in the walls, painting thin golden lines across the floor. There was almost nothing inside. An old bed, a low table, and a single shelf.
Mi‑un sat down slowly, her legs finally giving in.
The child slept peacefully, unaware of how fragile their world truly was.
Tears fell silently onto the wooden floor.
"I don't even know where to begin," she murmured.
---
The days that followed were harder than she had imagined.
Water had to be carried from far away. Firewood needed to be gathered. Nights were long, filled with the cries of a child who did not understand hunger, heat, or exhaustion—only the need for warmth and comfort.
Mi‑un's arms ached constantly.
Her back burned.
Her sleep came in broken pieces.
Sometimes, while rocking the child late at night, her vision blurred and her thoughts drifted back.
MK… what would you say if you saw me like this?
There were moments when fear crept in quietly.
What if the child fell sick?
What if she ran out of money?
What if she collapsed one day and no one was there?
She had no answers.
Only resolve.
---
People in the village noticed her.
Whispers followed her wherever she went.
"A young woman… alone?"
"No husband?"
"Whose child is that?"
She kept her head down.
Every stare felt like a weight. Every question, a blade she learned to dodge with silence.
Work was scarce.
Some days she earned barely enough to buy food. Other days, nothing at all. She learned to skip meals without thinking, saving everything for the child.
When the baby smiled for the first time, Mi‑un cried harder than she ever had.
When the baby took her finger and held on tightly, she whispered,
"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
---
At night, the wooden house creaked with the wind.
Mi‑un would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the child's breathing. Fear sat beside her like an uninvited guest, but she did not chase it away.
She accepted it.
Because love had come with it.
"I don't know how to be a mother," she admitted softly one night, brushing her fingers through the child's hair. "But I'll learn. Even if it breaks me."
Outside, the wind rustled through the trees, carrying her words into the dark.
The house stood quietly, holding their fragile beginnings within its wooden walls.
This was not the life she had imagined.
But it
was the life she had chosen.
And she would survive it—
one night, one tear, one breath at a time.