Mrs Vinh’s son in law
In the old, worn-out canteen of Hung Yen Pedagogical College, there was a woman who needed no name tag and no introduction—just mention “canteen yogurt,” and everyone in the school would immediately think of one person: Mrs. Vinh.
She had once been a primary school teacher—gentle but strict. After retiring, she still stayed connected with the school, though no longer on the teaching platform but… behind the canteen counter. The canteen was tiny, yet always crowded with students. Not only because of the snacks, but also because of one very special item—Mrs. Vinh’s yogurt—famous for its smoothness, coolness, perfect flavor, and the unbelievable price of only 500 dongs.
Mrs. Vinh had three children. The eldest daughter studied Art and Music at the college, often seen carrying her drawing folder around and doodling along the hallways. The second daughter had quit school early to help her mother sell at the canteen; she was quick, lively, and sharp-tongued. The youngest son, about nine years old, was at the age of playfulness but still helped his mother diligently.
Back then, in my dorm room, there was a bunk bed with loose screws that shook like it was about to collapse every time someone climbed up. After nearly falling a few times, we decided to fix it. But unfortunately, we had no hammer. Two of my friends—Quyết, the long-haired one who looked like a wandering artist, and Thủy, who always had a cigarette in his mouth—volunteered to go borrow one from the canteen.
Five minutes later, they returned, faces long as shovels.
— Mrs. Vinh wouldn’t lend it! Must’ve thought we looked like scammers…
So it was my turn to try my luck. I went down to the canteen, politely greeted her, and said:
— Mrs. Vinh, our bunk bed is falling apart. Could I borrow a hammer to fix it?
She looked me up and down, narrowed her eyes slightly, then after a moment, nodded:
— Alright. This one looks honest and decent. I’ll lend it. But remember to return it after you’re done!
I was overjoyed, thanked her profusely, and ran back to the room like a triumphant hero. From that day on, my friends called me “Mrs. Vinh’s son-in-law.” Whenever anyone passed the canteen, they would tease:
— Hey Thỏa, son-in-law! Go ask your mother-in-law for some yogurt!
Mrs. Vinh, knowing they were just messing around, would simply chuckle:
— You boys love teasing too much! Eat all you want, but wash the cups afterward!
Every afternoon after exhausting football matches, dripping with sweat, we would head to the canteen, each with a bag of yogurt, sitting on the hallway floor and eating like we hadn’t seen food in days. One time, after a celebratory meal, each of us bought five bags of yogurt, eating and sighing in admiration:
— If Mrs. Vinh opened a shop, Vinamilk’s yogurt wouldn’t stand a chance!
She overheard and laughed:
— I just make it for fun. As long as you students enjoy it, I’m happy. If I sold it at student prices in a real shop, I’d starve!
Now, whenever I think back to those years, I remember the pale yellow canteen with red letters on the awning, and Mrs. Vinh behind the counter—hands moving swiftly as she scooped yogurt, her eyes gentle yet perceptive.
Sometimes, it’s the smallest things—a 500-dong for yogurt, a warm smile—that stay with us through our entire youth.
