My father killed him with the knife he used to beat me every day, then put his body on his motorcycle and took it directly to the police station, confessing his crime.
My Dad he was sorry he could not do anything more for me, and told me he loved me, and hoped that I could have a better life with my two sons, and that they would not inherit their father’s violent streak.
Today my dad is in jail, but unfortunately things did not turn out the way he hoped. My two sons and I are the victims of malicious gossip and the stigma attached to my husband’s death. While it is true that I no longer have to suffer beatings, people look at us in fear or with scorn.
There is no longer any smell of alcohol in the house, but I cannot banish the image of his bloodied body on my father’s motorcycle.
My story has recently appeared on the front page of several magazines, as a result of which I was contacted by an NGO working to empower women here in Vietnam. They have provided us with psychological help, and have awarded my two children scholarships to learn English, paid their school fees and given them money for school lunches so that they can continue their education at a state school.
They have also provided me with a sewing machine so that I can work from home and take care of my children while making products for them.
Unfortunately I don’t think I can stay in the house, even during the day, I imagine I can still smell the alcohol; and see the knife, fearing revenge. I know it sounds strange but that is how I feel. “Violence can’t beat violence, your father should not have done what he did, even to protect you,” they say. But tell me, if my dad had not done that, then who would have protected us?