Chào buổi sang.” I greeted my surrogate family as I joined them for a traditional Vietnamese breakfast of Cháo, my personal favorite.

It was a type of rice porridge. Very simple, but since I was paying the family a rather generous amount for hosting me, they always spruced up the dish with a bit of boiled chicken, bones and all. Apparently, it was the best way to get the tastiest broth.

I had tried to learn how to make the dish during my first few weeks in the home, but I just didn’t have the knack for it. Either, I boiled the rice for too long and made the porridge too soupy, or I didn’t boil it long enough. After those few failed attempts, my host mother, Chau, had kicked me out of the kitchen, suspending me to laundry duty along with some of the younger children.

“Ăn ngon nhé,” Chau said, inviting everyone to finally dig in. The children grabbed their bowls and started to ravenously shovel food into their mouths. Chau took her time to adjust her position, her legs carefully folded into a pretzel before she grabbed her own bowl.

Eventually, I did the same. It was still a little strange for me to be eating on the floor, using an old rug as a dinner table, but it was their culture and I wasn’t about to insult it, especially when I depended on their hospitality to do my job.

I was an American journalist. Back home, I had been stuck in an office, writing opinion articles on politicians and school reforms. Busy work, at best. I was sick of it. So, six months ago, I decided to come to Vietnam and do some real journalism. I wanted to expose myself to the truth so I could tell the world what was really happening overseas. The Vietnam War had ended over thirty years ago, so why was the American government still actively sending troops against the Viet Cong? There was something our politicians weren’t telling us and I was going to find out exactly what that was.

By the time I snapped out of my trance, dinner was over and Chau already had a load of laundry in her arms, looking at me expectantly. “Sidney?”

“Xin lỗi.” I apologized quickly, scrambling to my feet.

She shoved the hand woven basket into my chest, giving me commands to wash everything in the river and then hang it to dry.

I nodded, walking down to the river by myself. When I first arrived at the village, some of the natives were constantly staring at me, their eyes full of suspicion and hatred. It had taken some time to adjust, but finally, people were starting to get used to me, making it a little easier to fit in.

Down at the river, I joined a group of women who were already doing laundry. They had such a skill for it. Massaging the clothes onto the rock, their strong hands looking like they were made for the task. Others were slamming their garments into the washing stone, getting out the last bits of stubborn dirt and soap. The sound was rhythmic, echoing through the nearby jungle. The twittering of exotic birds only added to the melody. Sometimes, I felt like I could be out here all day long.

The only problem was, I kind of sucked at doing laundry. Maybe I was just so used to putting all my clothes in a machine, pressing ‘Wash’ and not having to think about it for an hour. Either way, my clothes never came out as clean as the others’, no matter how much elbow grease I put into it.

As I massaged the clothes into the stone, I listened to the nearby murmuring of gossip. A few of the women were commenting on a tall, handsome American soldier who had barged into the village’s “bakery”, asking about his lost brother.

The description made me freeze. A lost brother? Dark, wild hair? A prominent birthmark on his right cheek? It all sounded strikingly familiar.

But, it couldn’t be him… could it?

My heart tightened at the thought as a sense of longing crept into my soul. How long had it been now? Almost ten years…

I shook my head. It didn’t matter at this point. We had gone our separate ways and that was just how the ball rolled.

I sighed and hoisted the basket of laundry onto my shoulder. It was now about two times heavier than before, but I carried it without complaint, not wanting to appear weak. After all, there were ten-year-old girls who carried even bigger baskets all by themselves.

Once I got back to the house, I started the task of hanging the clothes to dry. As I did, I had a good view of the main road. My heart froze when I saw him.

No. It couldn’t be him.

I blinked, feeling like I was staring at a ghost. He had barely changed…

Even after all this time, he still had those piercing blue eyes, that iconic hair of his…

Unable to face him – or more specifically – to face my past, I retreated inside. Chau would have my head for leaving the laundry undone, but I just couldn’t bear to see him. To see the man who had broken my heart ten years ago.