I spent 15 years of my youth in Sài Gòn — far from my parents — building an independent life. After nearly a decade of working, I finally had my own apartment, which I officially left last week.

I chose to leave because that place had slowly shifted from a home to just a house.
Still, when I packed up every single thing — big and small — and looked around at all the corners I had spent seven years decorating and making my own, it stirred a deep mix of emotions. It was painful to leave a space I had once loved so much. But I know this decision is for a better future.

Every little effort I made — from choosing the spoons, cups, bookshelf, and electrical devices for a more comfortable life, to picking plants for a greener space, to installing kitchen shelves, beds, mattresses, curtains — every single thing was chosen with care and love to complete that home. The wallpaper, the floral decals on the doors and kitchen cabinets, the stickers around the closet — they weren’t just material things. They held my time, energy, and affection.

I used my savings — a decade of hard work — to afford that apartment. And now, a large part of that is gone due to life choices I made both seven years ago and again today. Was it painful? I won’t lie — yes, it broke my heart.

Even my neighbors felt sad when my son and I decided to leave. They were good people. One of them told me she never once heard yelling or loud voices from our home. That meant something to me — I had always wanted to create a peaceful, respectful space. I believe no one should live in constant conflict, or in a place where there’s no mutual respect.

But reality was different. Behind the silence, there were deeper wounds. The environment turned manipulative, and I began to shrink into silence. No one knew what I was really going through.

And yet, even knowing all that, I still couldn’t overcome the fear tied to that house. The emotional aggression, the subtle abuse — all of it was ingrained in those walls.
It wasn’t home anymore.

I kept telling myself: A house becomes a cage when you no longer feel safe.

In just three hours, a moving service helped me pack up and relocate. And I’ve come to realize — it doesn’t matter where you live, but who you live with.
Wherever my son and I go next, I know I can make it home for us.

We still have many more years ahead — so why hold on to painful memories?
Why not create new ones?

A new home where we can feel safe, healthy, and happy.
A space where my son can have sweet dreams — and sometimes even laugh in his sleep, instead of crying and asking me to stay with him and not leave him alone, like he did before.
A space where his drawings are full of color and joy, not dark and filled with fear.

Watching your child from a quiet corner, you realize: staying in an unsafe place doesn’t just harm you — it harms them even more.
They have a longer life ahead than you do.

And in this experience, my son has become my greatest teacher.

Thanks for life.