weak-willed
675 Words
Lunch that day was unusually quiet. The sound of slurping porridge echoed steadily, like a sorrowful melody in the shabby kitchen. Linh Du slammed her chopsticks on the table, her voice icy cold:
“Eat if you want! Why so many questions?”
The room seemed to freeze. Everyone lowered their eyes, no one dared to speak another word.
Madam Trinh quietly divided the food. First, she served Mr. Trinh Dai Thanh, then Trinh Nhi and Trinh Tam — the three men each got larger portions. Then came portions for herself, Linh Du, and Tien Shi, and lastly, the three little girls. Everyone ate quickly, cleaning their bowls until not a single grain of rice was left.
Meanwhile, Linh Du’s eyes silently scanned everyone around the table.
This family, on the surface, looked peaceful, but in reality, it was like an old, worn-out piece of silk — one gentle tug and it would tear apart. Their personalities were too gentle, too soft. Not the kind of kindness born of generosity, but a weakness rooted in lack of backbone, lack of opinion. As long as someone raised their voice, they would immediately retreat.
That’s why, no matter how harsh or sharp-tongued the original host had been, no one in the family ever dared to talk back.
Perhaps it was poverty that bred such inferiority. When one has lived too long in hardship, it eats away at confidence — makes people live as if they’re constantly indebted to others.
If anyone in this house had a bit of spine, it might have been Tien Shi. But she, too, had been worn down by the belief that “daughters are burdens.” Ever since giving birth to Tieu Yen, she had felt like she could never measure up to Linh Du — the woman carrying the “first grandson” of the Trinh family.
Linh Du furrowed her brow. The stifling air in the kitchen irritated her, but she couldn't explode like the original host used to. After all, she wasn’t from this world — she couldn’t go around yelling and hitting people.
Still… if she didn’t stay strong, this household might just drag her down.
Her gaze flicked toward the three children eating quietly. Tieu Lang ate carefully, not spilling a grain. Tieu Me kept glancing at others’ bowls and swallowing hard. Tieu Yen, meanwhile, ate while occasionally sneaking glances at Linh Du — eyes filled with both fear and a flicker of hope.
She recalled a faint memory that surfaced that morning — how the original host had once shouted in the yard:
“This family’s dirt-poor, and they’re still wasting food to raise someone to study? Ridiculous!”
Back then, Trinh Tam had only lowered his head, clutching his worn-out book tightly. He hadn’t argued, just clenched his teeth and continued to study. Because he knew — if he didn’t learn, he’d end up like the other men — stuck in the fields for life, exhausted and poor like his parents.
Linh Du sighed inwardly. This world wasn’t post-apocalyptic, but it was no easier to survive in.
She turned to Madam Trinh. “Let me cook dinner tonight. Mother, you should rest.”
The old woman looked up, surprised. “Are you… really okay?”
Linh Du nodded gently. “I’m fine. I’m used to it.”
Not exactly used to it — but she had to be. If she wanted to survive in this household, if she wanted to protect the three children, she had to be even stronger than the original host had been.
Outside, the rain began to fall in a soft drizzle. Mountain winds howled through the window cracks, sending chills through the air. Linh Du suddenly felt a flutter in her belly — the baby kicked gently, as if to remind her: it’s here. And so is she.
No matter where she was — whether in an ancient world or the ruins of a post-apocalyptic one — as long as she was alive, she wouldn’t allow herself to be weak.
- Writer
