Unlimited Refills, Limited Time

The car door opened. By whom? A fairy. I climbed into the vehicle, front seat, a gray 2010 Hyundai Santa Fe. The fairy shut the door and immediately soared upwards, her wings flapping so gently before disappearing between the power lines. Not even two breaths have passed before the car roared into the busy streets of Ho Chi Minh City. I was eight.

Staring out the windows, motorbikes pass by, utility poles pass by. Faces, so many faces, but I can’t remember one. The sidewalks are run down, decades of rain washing it away. Nước chảy đá mòn. On those sidewalks are men lying on their motorbikes. The color of their shirts faded, their hair painted with a subtle grey. I wonder how they can fall asleep when it’s so hot out, so loud out, lying so uncomfortably on a thin uneven surface. A few meters away, a woman sits on a plastic stool with a huge pot of Tàu hủ. There was a laminated sign with handwritten prices, barely holding on to its original form, decaying after weeks and weeks of exposure to the neverending streets of Saigon. Every few minutes, a customer stops by. One cup, two cups. Even three, perhaps. Who knows? After all, it is the fairy who decides.

“Are you hungry?” my father asked me, eyes stuck on the road. Sometimes, I’d like to imagine it was the fairy asking me instead. That way it felt like it was their decision.

“A little bit,” I mumbled, eyes also stuck on the road, the woman vendor outside, the motorcycles racing by, and the heat haze popping from the granite below. My right elbow glues themselves to the side of the door, my hand holding up my chin. I, too, was simply doing what the fairy instructed.

“Bánh tiêu. In the drawer of your seat. Eat before swimming practice. Ten minutes,” father instructed.

I grabbed the bánh tiêu, almost too enthusiastically. A fiend, I am, however, quickly checking and calming myself. The warmth of the bánh tiêu transferred into my fingers and circulated to the rest of my body. A small tear in the fairy’s script, an inconspicuous sign of love I had not yet understood.

* * *

It was a Saturday night. My mother and I leisurely strolled along AEON Mall to get dinner. And more importantly, to find a gift for Father’s Day. My father conveniently had to stay at work late that night, which gave us ample time to search every corner of the mall.

Dinner was Gyudon, a japanese beef rice dish, and a few appetizers. Japanese restaurants were only beginning to open in Vietnam, so customers at the time were still sparse. Memorably, the store offered free unlimited refills of matcha tea, probably to replicate the tea drinking culture of Vietnam. I’ve never had it before. It was my first time seeing such a green colored tea, putting the name green tea to shame. And to be frank, I hated matcha the first time I had it.

“I don’t know what a perfect gift would be for father,” I admitted to my mother as we foraged store by store, “what makes you know a gift is the correct gift?”

Mother glanced at me, tilting her head slightly, her eyes soft but calculating. “It’s not about being correct,” she said. “It’s about what comes from you.”

I nodded, though the words felt too abstract for my child brain. We continued wandering around and headed into a bookstore. My family goes here together all the time as my father has a fervent love for books. So I was a little hesitant about getting a gift from here. It was then that I saw a leather book cover. The fairy was pointing at it with a mischievous grin. I ignored her and continued walking.

“Does dad have a book cover?” I asked, my eyes continuing to search for anything else that might catch my eye.

“I won’t tell you. And if he does, that means yours will be the most important book cover he has,” my mother adamant on not giving me any hints. “The gift is one thing. But the feeling is the most important thing that will reach your dad.”

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, spilling across the kitchen table in thin strips. The leather book cover rested there, small and unassuming, yet heavy with sentiment. My father sat across from me, drinking his Oolong tea, reading the morning headlines on his tablet.

I cleared my throat and pushed the gift toward him.

“For Father’s Day,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

He looked down at it. Paused. Picked it up carefully, turning it over in his hands. His expression did not change. Not a smile. Not a flicker of surprise. Only the soft click of the tea cup being placed down on the table.

I waited. My stomach tightened. Should I say something else? Open it for him? I didn’t dare. The fairy, invisible to all but me, hovered nearby, wings still, watching.

Finally, he set it down on the table, nodding once, very slightly. Then he returned to his tea.

I wanted to run, to ask if he liked it. But I didn’t. I only watched, a quiet ache in my chest.

Hours later, when my mother and I were alone in the living room, she mentioned it casually:

“He cried when he opened your gift.”

* * *

In sixth grade, I had my first podium finish at a swim meet. Third place, at a competition in Singapore. It is family tradition to go out to a big dinner to celebrate a win.

The restaurant smelled of sizzling oil and the sharp sweetness of caramelized onions. Steam rose from the sizzling pans, curling toward the low-hanging lights. My mother had insisted on celebrating my podium finish with bánh xèo, and I didn’t argue. It was my favorite dish, after all.

We were seated in a corner booth, the edges of the metal table sticky from hurried meals of other patrons, yet it felt like ours alone. On the corner of the table are sticker numbers, ours saying seven. The plastic chairs that felt almost too fragile somehow support my weight. The sound of the fan, attached to the side of the wall, buzzing in my ear. Mother was practically glowing, her hands pressed to her chest, eyes sparkling as she looked at me.

“You were third!” she exclaimed, her voice full of awe, the words bouncing between us. “Third! I knew you could do it, but” She broke off, laughing softly. “Oh, my child, I’m so proud of you. So proud. You’ve worked so hard.”

I smiled, feeling my cheeks warm. The greasy, crispy edges of the bánh xèo did little to soothe the fluttering in my chest.

Father sat across from me. Quiet. Hands folded neatly on the table, fingers brushing occasionally against the rim of his tea glass. Water condensed on all sides of the glass due to the warm humid air of Ho Chi Minh city.  His eyes lingered on me, steady and bright. I wanted to meet his gaze, to look for that familiar script, the silent guidance of the fairy, but tonight, there was nothing.

I cleared my throat. “Thanks, mom. And dad… thanks too.”

He nodded, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His chest rose as though he wanted to say more.

I waited.

“I…”

“You did…”

“Next time…”

The words hung in the space between us. I could feel the weight of them, heavy and precious. He opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it again. A small crease formed between his brows. He tried again. Something like a sigh escaped him, a breath meant to carry all the pride and love he felt, but it never reached the air.

Mother didn’t notice. She was too busy insisting I try another piece of bánh xèo, too caught up in her own joy. I did, but my mind kept flicking to my father.

His hands rested lightly on the table now. He scratched at his throat, a slow, restless motion, and each breath came heavier than the last.

A soft hush fell over the table. Mother hummed contentedly, savoring the food. Father’s lips pressed together again. He glanced at me, eyes full, and I understood, everything he wanted to say was in the steadiness of his gaze.

I took a deep breath and reached across the table, briefly brushing his hand. That small contact seemed to pass along all the love we couldn’t speak.

I looked around, and for a moment, the fairy was not present.

The next day, my father woke up at 5 AM to drive me to swimming practice starting at six. He did this every weekday for four years straight.

* * *

A man growing old becomes a child again, said Sophocles,

but what of the tragedy of a child growing away from one?

It was a late night, the sky darker than obsidian. The moon was tinged with a slight red, although not quite full. I stayed overtime to go over my mistakes with the head chef. He was a stern character who did not shy away from giving feedback. It is easy to get the wrong impression of him, but outside his cold demeanor is a soul that cooks hundreds of warm meals for people every day.

That being said, I was still dejected. I phoned my father to ask if he and mother wanted to go out with me to catch a late night snack. He said yes.

I drove to my parent’s apartment building, in the same district where we have always lived. As it’s late at night, I figured stopping at the valet drop off zone wouldn’t cause any problems. Looking up, most apartments had their lights off; hundreds of children probably dozing off in their beautiful dreams. In the parking lot, not a single car was occupied. Even the reception desk was empty. The night tends to remind you how lonely you are.

A minute later, my father came out of the elevator, walking towards the front automatic glass door, a yellow background painted behind him. His face gleamed with joy. Something good must’ve happened, I concluded without much thought.

The car door opens. No fairy this time, just my father.

“Your mother is too tired to come. It’ll just have to be me this time,” my father gleefully explained.

“That’s okay,” I responded, my eyes on the steering wheel, just following the script given to me by the fairy, “is bột chiên okay?”

“Yes, of course, just like the good old days then!” father rambled, “when you were younger, mother would get mad at me for sneaking you out to bột chiên. She said it made you fat.” A little chuckle. “Although, it’s funny, sometimes, we would go to eat bột chiên on our own now and remind ourselves that it is your favorite snack. How time has changed.”

My father speaks so freely, it fills me with a little envy. Where is his fairy I wondered, the one who gives him all the scripts.

“Let’s go,” I said and immediately, we headed into the less than crowded streets of Ho Chi Minh city. Though, everyone was still awake. Stores were open. A sea of motorcycles flood the streets. They do call it a city that never sleeps.

“One order of bò bía, two sugarcane juice, one bột chiên, and one bánh hẹ, please,” I shouted at the store owner.

“Coming right up,” she responded in her áo bà ba that allows her to work in an uncompromisingly scorching environment.

“Did work not go well today?” father asked, he sat back in his seat, his hands knotted together and placed on the back of his head.

“The head chef had feedback for me. I made some mistakes.” I answered.

My father looked at me, trying to probe for more. But, I didn’t yield. The fairy was watching me after all.

“I’m proud of you, son,” my father said with a little grin. “Work is hard, not everyday will be a good day. But that’s what family is for, right? So just call me up next time if something goes wrong again.”

Stunned, I don’t know what to say. I changed the topic, “you look happy today.”

“It’s because you invited me to a snack. When was the last time we ate like this? Eighth grade?”

The food arrived. The savory heat of the bột chiên and bánh hẹ, combined with the freshness of the bò bía, then washed away by the sugarcane juice. All the worries in the world really do melt away. Another small tear in the script.

After we were done, we headed back into the car. It was paradoxically quiet, considering if I pulled down the windows, an orchestra of city sounds would burst into life. The car turned on, a soft hymn tonight, not the usual roar. The speed meter lighted up, contrasting the dark background surrounding it. Before I drove forward, I turned to my father, who was happily taking in the streets that raised him. His hair is now gray just like the men sleeping on the motorcycles. How did I not notice it before?

On the way back to his apartment, not much was said. I asked him about his health and he asked me more about my job and future plans. He smiles a lot more than I remember. Maybe that’s what retirement does to a person.

Then, we reached a red light. The streets paused for a moment, as if the city itself needed to breathe. Motorcycles gathered beside us, their engines humming softly. A vendor pushed a cart across the intersection, unhurried.

I looked at my father.

The glow from the traffic light painted his face red. He was still smiling faintly, watching the street outside as though nothing in the world demanded urgency anymore. His hands rested calmly on his lap.

I should say it now, I thought.

The words rose easily at first, familiar and obvious. I opened my mouth.

Something small pressed against my throat.

Two gentle hands, light as memory, closing where my voice should have been.

I did not need to turn to know who it was.

The fairy hovered between us, unseen by anyone but me, her wings barely moving, her expression neither cruel nor kind. Only certain.

I tried again.

My chest filled, but the air stopped halfway. The words dissolved before they could take shape. The fairy tightened her grip. I could no longer breathe. I started shaking my head, to signal my compliance.

The fairy released me.

The air returned quietly, as though nothing had happened at all.

I pressed the accelerator, and the car moved forward.

Eventually, we got to the apartment. Not a single word was uttered for the rest of that ride. Father exited the car and waved at me. I nodded. Once he was gone, I closed my eyes and let my head fall back onto the head rest.

“Some conversations are only meant for the heart to have,” the fairy whispers in my ears before floating away.

P. S. For non-Vietnamese readers, the fairy in this story is Âu Cơ.

The legend of Lạc Long Quân and Âu Cơ is Vietnam's premier origin story. According to the myth, the dragon lord Lạc Long Quân (from the sea) married the mountain fairy Âu Cơ, who gave birth to a sac of one hundred eggs. These eggs hatched into one hundred children: the ancestors of the Vietnamese people. When the couple realized their natures were incompatible, they divided the children: fifty followed their mother to the mountains, and fifty followed their father to the sea, with the understanding that they would help one another if ever in need . This is why the Vietnamese refer to themselves as "con Rồng cháu Tiên,” children of the dragon and grandchildren of the fairy.

This origin story is not merely a quaint folktale; it functions as a national charter myth, establishing the Vietnamese people as descendants of divine beings, bound by an original covenant of mutual aid across separation. The fairy Âu Cơ is the mother of the nation, the source of Vietnamese identity itself.