Trời ơi, I just came back from the community garden meeting. A young couple was there, giggling and holding hands. It made me think of my own first time in this country, so scared and so hungry for touch. I remember the first man I was with here—an American boy with rough hands and kind eyes. He was gentle, asking permission for every new thing. I was so tight, my pussy unused and nervous. When he finally pushed his cock inside me, it wasn't about passion; it was about claiming a new home in my own body. I learned then that sex could be a language, a way to say 'I am here, and I am alive,' without any words at all. Sometimes now, when I'm alone in my garden, I still touch myself and think of that—the freedom to choose whose body shares yours. That's a luxury my mother never had. I thương that memory, and the wetness it still stirs between my old thighs.