The restaurant bustles with the frenetic energy of staff replenishing buffet trays and ushering in guests, replacing the tranquil ambience of earlier. I have sat here each morning for the past five days, at the same table by the window, exactly at six thirty.

A hazy early-morning wakefulness clings to me—age has a way of unravelling sleep. But, as Fred would say, ‘When life gives you lemons, you make lemonades.’ By six, I am up, dressed, and ready, meticulously planning the day with a notebook in my hand. Then I stroll to this little café, just a two-minute walk from my room, observing street vendors setting up their stalls as if they didn’t go to bed last night  

‘Good morning, madam. Your usual table?’ Huy’s voice is warm, clearing the second setting without prompting. I take the table beside the window and the seat faces the street to watch the city awaken, streams of motorbikes and pedestrians bustling into their day.

Huy sets a glass of Cà phê sữa đá before me, a gesture of familiarity. He knows me, just as I know details about his life—how he’s twenty-two, sharing a tiny room with his brother, and that Lan, his colleague, is waiting for her fiancé to return from China to get married. Vietnamese coffee wasn’t always my choice, but Fred has loved it since our first visit to Vietnam fifteen years ago. He drank it even in winter, and now, I take a slow sip and let the sweet bitterness linger, feeling a bit of Fred here with me.

‘Kahm Uhn.’ I thank Huy in my rusty Vietnamese. He beams.

‘You like Pho or Bun Bo Hue?’ I let Huy’s question swirl in my head, knowing there was no point in telling him I could get my breakfast.  He is part of a culture that respects elders and worships ancestors, and my grey hair and saggy skin have given me a privileged status. Taking away that honour would only insult his sense of duty.

 I nod. ‘Bun Bo. No shrimp paste,’ I add, simplifying my words as a rikshaw driver had advised me. Keep it short and practical. Grammar and sentence structures are redundant.

Moments later, Huy returns with a spicy noodle soup with rice vermicelli and beef. I savour each sip, its spices warming me, as Lan—the head chef—appears beside me, her apron dotted with traces of this morning’s orders. With a quick hello, she places a freshly made omelette before me.

‘You go where yesterday?’ she asks, smiling with curiosity. Her eyes light up as I hand her my phone to scroll through photos instead of trying to explain.

‘Where go today?’  Handing my phone back, Lan asks.

I speak slowly and tell her my plans for the day. She scribbles a restaurant name on a slip of paper. ‘Thức ăn ngon,’ she tries to translate, and I grasp it—food, good.

I smile with gratitude. ‘I will try,’ I say slowly, waiting for each word to sink in.  ‘I will take photos for you,’ I promise, showing my phone. Her grin is a bright reminder of youthful enthusiasm.

The café is nearly full now, with travellers sipping coffee, laughing, leaning in close. Across from me, a young couple can’t keep their hands to themselves, their affection effusive, unapologetic. I watch them, a pang of nostalgia as I recall Fred and me, the uncontainable joy of our early days. The girl wears a flimsy top and a tiny short that barely covers her butt cheeks, and I can almost hear my mother’s sharp gasp if she were here to see it. But their laughter is contagious, and I catch myself smiling.

The young man can’t stop snapping pictures of the girl making cute but silly faces. I assumed they would end up on one of those social media pages that my granddaughter, Maya, always hampers.

These days, she only seems to visit me for my garden, and that is only during spring. She ambled around, snapping selfies, wearing ridiculous outfits that matched the colours of the flowers in bloom.

‘Oh, you have the best flower beds, grandma. My followers adore them,’ she’d coo before leaving, giving me no clue who would follow a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl and for what purpose.

Nearby, a family of four settles into a booth, the parents visibly weary, two boys bustling with energy and a girl trailing reluctantly. Mother’s tone is sharp as she urges, ‘Hurry up, Sophie. We don’t have all day.’ The girl slumps, her face flushed and tear-streaked, her spirit a little crumpled. Her father, sandy-haired, with a steady gaze that reminds me achingly of Fred, leans down, speaking low, ‘Ten minutes, Sophie, if you want to go on the ride.’ His tone carries the practised ease of a negotiator.

Their breakfast unfolds with a tension that pricks at my own memories. Family vacations—the sound of forks clinking, restless kids fidgeting for attention. Fred always dressed before me, slipping out early with the kids so I could have a few moments to steady myself. I can still feel his silent agreement, the way he knew I’d need that extra half-hour to face the morning squabbles.

Back then, by the end of every holiday, we’d swear it would be the last family trip. Fitting in the kids’ endless wants alongside the plans Fred and I had rarely went smoothly. Yet, somehow, seeing them laugh and get along—even briefly—always made it worth it, if only until the next tantrum.

‘We should’ve stayed home and taken them to Luna Park,’ I’d say, wiping my eyes, trying not to laugh at the end of every school holiday.

Fred would snort, his jaw tight, ‘I’d rather sit by the pool with a beer than ride another round with a screaming bunch of kids.’ It always made us laugh, but now, that ache lingers in the silence he has left.

I catch myself shamelessly staring at the family again. The little girl’s spirit is so like my daughter, Zoe’s. Feisty and headstrong traits that grew sharper as she got older. Even now, my two boys and their families are there more than she is. My daughters-in-law are generous with their time. They coax me to join them for lunch, bring the kids over, and make me feel less alone. Sarah gets Matti to drop by to fix my tech issues. Mandy nudges Drew to check my car and sprinklers. Fred’s chores are split between them as if he is still here in some small way.

But Zoe—she says it’s hard to visit without Fred around. She was always her dad’s girl, wrapped around her finger. ‘You’re going to spoil her,’ I’d warn him, and he’d just shrug. Even when she grew selfish, he only saw perfection.

‘Sophie, No. Stop that! My thoughts shatter as the woman’s sharp voice rises—Sophie’s flinging grapes at her brothers, drawing stares from annoyed patrons. The mother stands abruptly, scooping her up as her husband hurriedly packs croissants and a banana, urging the boys to follow. They shuffle out, disappointed but obedient.

I watch them go, feeling the tug of old memories. My heart aches for the woman. I wish I could tell her it gets easier, that these battles with your children soften over time. But that would be a lie. Those tantrums would only morph into different shapes and forms as they age. And sometimes, they reflect on you in ways you never anticipated. Zoe’s therapist often implies her entitlement was my doing, a bitter pill I’ve had to swallow, even if I find solace in Matti and Drew.

The café quiets, leaving only the gentle laughter of an elderly couple nearby. Memories of Fred ache within me—our dreams, half-formed and unfulfilled. A familiar wave of loss rises, pulling me back to the day of the accident, to the empty space he left behind. It took me five years to find the courage to travel beyond grocery stores and my children’s homes. And now, here I am, on my first solo journey to Vietnam, where I’d seen him happiest.

Each day here is my quiet homage to Fred. I raise a glass of Cà phê sữa đá or coconut water, sometimes a beer, remembering how alive he looked here. His memory seeps into every corner of this trip; I feel him beside me as I wander the streets and savour sunsets. And with each step, I reckon with my failings, wishing I could tell him just once more how deeply he was loved.

The last table clears, leaving me alone in the now-empty café. With a deep breath, I close my eyes and let the memories settle, a single tear slipping free—a silent tribute to the man who filled my life with laughter and love. As I open my eyes, a sense of peace washes over me, a quiet acceptance.

I gather my notebook and map, slipping my bag over my shoulder. It’s time to step into the world again. Fred may be gone, but I feel his spirit stirring somewhere within, guiding me through each new moment.

‘Ready for today’s excursion, Fred?’ I whisper, picturing his grin through my misted eyes, his hand lacing through mine, a touch time hasn’t erased.

‘We’re off to see the water puppets.’ I smile, knowing he’d light up at the thought. And with him beside me in spirit, I step out, carrying him into another new day.