Chapter 1

The Aussie Jin

I was five when the world suddenly grew wider.

One evening in a familiar restaurant, life tilted toward someplace called Melbourne. What followed were years stitched with strange accents, tram bells, and the gentle hands that held me through homesickness.

I learned what distance meant, what comfort felt like, and how laughter could bridge both. This is the chapter where everything began – the scent of rain, the sound of new words, and the small moments that taught me how to belong, love, and, eventually, say goodbye.

Moments ahead

Pt1: A little girl and her strange city

I still remember that night

The soft hum of the ceiling fan, the clatter of bowls, the smell of crab broth curling through the air. It was my favourite restaurant, the one tucked behind the old market where the tables were always a little sticky, and the “bún riêu cua” always came with too much mint. I was five, legs swinging off the chair, completely at peace
Then, between spoonfuls, my mother said it, gentle, almost casual

“This might be your last bowl here, Jin. We’re moving to Melbourne.”

I didn’t understand what “moving” really meant. I nodded, thinking perhaps Melbourne was another word for dessert?

The city I later met was nothing like the warm, noisy streets I left. Melbourne smelled of rain on pavement and freshly brewed coffee. The air was thinner, cooler; even the light felt polite.

Trams hummed past with metallic sighs, and birds, strange ones with long calls, sang from invisible branches. I remember the creak of the wooden floor in our new home, the cold sting of morning when I first opened the window. Everything felt curious, like living inside someone else’s dream.

I learned to laugh at the oddness of that strange city: milk that came in cardboard boxes, people who smiled at strangers, the taste of buttered toast instead of rice. I liked it, in my small way. The city felt like a playground stitched with surprises.

Back then, I didn’t know that a city could shape a person, that somewhere between its streets and skies, a child could start learning lessons that is lifelong worthy to keep

Pt2: Ma, Grandma, and their crybaby

The first few months in Melbourne were the hardest. Everything looked too wide, too quiet. The sky felt too tall, as if it had more room for loneliness to echo. I was five – small, confused, and always one word short of what I wanted to say. English sounded like music from another planet, all rhythm and no meaning. At school, I smiled more than I spoke; you might guess it right, because it doesn’t require translation

At home, Ma was always rushing, not because she wanted to, but because time kept slipping through her fingers. In the mornings, she would wake up before dawn to cook breakfast. I’d see her back bent slightly as she stirred the pan, her hair pinned up in that quick, messy bun she always did when she was in a hurry. Then, after a soft “Eat well, Jin,” she’d disappear through the door, her bus card already between her fingers.

At night, I waited for the sound of her keys turning in the lock. She always came home smelling faintly of detergent and city dust. Sometimes, she’d read me a story. I loved those nights. Her voice was the softest part of my day. But one evening, in the middle of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, her words started to blur. Her head drooped, and the book slipped slightly from her hands. I watched her sleep mid-sentence, exhaustion folding her into silence. I cried quietly under the blanket, not angry, just so lonely.

Grandma was the one who stayed. She became my sun, my translator, my everything. She never went to school here, didn’t speak much English either, but somehow, she knew exactly how to make Melbourne feel less strange.

She’d take me to the market every Tuesday. The aisles smelled of oranges and detergent. She’d ask me to help choose vegetables, saying my eyes were sharper than hers. Sometimes she’d “forget” how to count coins, just so I could practice my English with the cashier. We’d return home with heavy bags and light hearts.

In the evenings, I’d go out to the little playground near our apartment. I liked kicking the ball around, though I mostly missed more than I hit. One day, I noticed Grandma watching from the bench, her scarf fluttering like a flag in the wind. She disappeared for a minute, then came back, wearing Ma’s old sport shoes, three sizes too big.

“Let’s play,” she said, her grin mischievous.

We were terrible. She kicked the ball once and almost lost her balance, and I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. She laughed too – the kind of laugh that wrinkles the eyes and shakes the shoulders. For the first time since arriving, I forgot to feel homesick. We played until the sky turned pink and the air smelled like rain.

The next morning, I found her sitting by the window, rubbing her lower back. She winced a little when she stood up.

“Are you okay, Grandma?” I asked, worried.

“Perfectly fine,” she said, straightening her back as if to prove it. “I can still carry you on my back and run to the supermarket, see?”

We both burst out laughing

I didn’t know it then, but love often hides in the small absurdities: a too-tight shoe, a sore back, a joke at breakfast.

Ma felt guilty for those months, though she never said it outright. I could see it in her eyes, in the way she hugged me tighter before leaving each morning. But life then was a puzzle made of sacrifices – hers just happened to build our tomorrow.

Later that year, we took a short trip to Sydney. It felt like breathing again. For once, Ma didn’t have to hurry. Grandma didn’t have to carry grocery bags. We visited the Opera House, its white sails gleaming against the harbor. Ma held my hand while Grandma tried to feed the seagulls. We rode a ferry to Taronga Zoo, and I remember Ma laughing, really laughing, when a mischievous monkey stole a packet of chips right from her bag.

That night, we walked along Darling Harbour, lights dancing on the water. The three of us shared a cone of pistachio ice cream. It dripped faster than we could eat, but no one cared. It was one of those rare, full-hearted nights that made me wish time could slow down.

Looking back, I think of those days as the softest part of my childhood, where love wasn’t spoken, but shown in gestures stitched together by exhaustion and devotion. Grandma’s clumsy football. Ma’s half-finished bedtime stories. A trip to Sydney that smelled like sea salt and laughter.

Now, I understand what I couldn’t then: when someone loves you deeply, even when they’re far away, their love lingers like sunlight after rain. Ma’s love was always there, just not always visible. And Grandma’s love was the quiet bridge that carried me across that distance.

Sometimes, when I see an old woman walking slowly with a little child in the park, I think of Grandma, her small frame, her oversized sneakers, her laughter that filled every corner of that Melbourne playground. And I realize that even when I was crying then, I was never really alone

Pt3: Fitting in

It didn’t happen all at once. There wasn’t a single morning when I woke up and thought, I belong now.

But slowly, the edges of Melbourne softened. The tram bells didn’t sound so foreign. The streets began to feel like paths instead of puzzles. Even the air, crisp and clean, with a faint smell of eucalyptus, started to smell like home.

The city, I realized, was incredibly welcoming. People waved at each other from across the street, smiled at the bus stop, and said “thank you” to the driver before stepping off. To me, it felt like living inside a big, friendly secret.

And then, there were the hugs.

At first, the “hugging culture” confused me. In Vietnam, hugs were rare, often saved for family or big occasions. But here, hugs were like commas in a sentence – they just appeared naturally, soft pauses in daily life.

I got hugged by everyone: classmates after group activities, teachers when handing out gold stars, even the school janitor once after I dropped my lunch and tried not to cry. Once, while waiting at the park, a golden retriever leaped onto my lap and refused to get off until its owner arrived – tail wagging, face smiling. I took that as a hug too.

At school, I started doing better. My English stopped tripping over itself. I could answer questions without feeling my cheeks burn. I joined the class music performance and played the triangle, a small part, but when the teacher smiled and said, “Lovely job, Jin,” I felt like I’d just won something grand.

Then came friends.

The first was Yin Mei – a girl with long braids and a laugh that sounded like glass marbles rolling on the floor. There was a big group of Chinese kids at my school. They always played together, quick chatter flying between them. Yin Mei first thought I was one of them.

“You Chinese?” she asked.

I blinked. “No… Vietnamese.”

She frowned slightly, then shrugged. “Close enough.”

To impress them, I learned one word “shénme,” which means what? I used it at every opportunity, throwing it into conversations whether it made sense or not. The group laughed each time, and I basked in that brief glow of belonging.

But I never quite made it into the circle. Still, Yin Mei stayed. We spent afternoons on the playground slide, going down again and again until our hair stuck to our cheeks and our shoes filled with sand.

Then came Laura.

One day, she sat next to me at lunch, out of nowhere, and said,

“You look lonely. Wanna share my popsicle?”

I nodded before she even finished. It was blueberry. Sweet and cold. We became friends just like that: no ceremony, no introduction, just a shared popsicle under the noisy shade of the schoolyard.

Daisy came after.

Our friendship started with a fight. Literally.

It was during art class. I’d accidentally spilled paint on her drawing — a bright orange sun that she’d spent the whole period coloring. She yelled. I yelled back. The teacher made us both clean up and sit apart. I remember going home feeling guilty, replaying the moment again and again.
The next day, Daisy walked straight up to me, held out a cookie, and said, “Truce?”

I took it

Then she grinned, “Wanna come over for dinner?”

That was the beginning of something special. Her house smelled like cinnamon and laundry detergent. Her mom always made too much pasta, and Daisy insisted I sleep over whenever we could. We’d stay up late whispering nonsense under the blanket, sharing secrets that only made sense at age ten.

Those nights were small pockets of joy, laughter muffled by pillows, the hum of the heater, the feeling of belonging. I didn’t know it then, but that friendship would later become one of the biggest lessons I’d carry from that time: one tangled with regret, the kind that only makes sense when you grow older.

Still, back then, it was simple. It was friendship in its purest form, two girls painting each other’s nails, arguing over cereal flavours, dreaming about growing up.

Looking back now, I realize that fitting in was never about trying too hard. It was about softening, letting the world come to me instead of running after it. The moment I stopped forcing myself to belong, I started to.

Adaptation, I’ve learned, doesn’t happen in one grand leap. It’s a collection of small surrenders, learning to say “hello” without fear, laughing at your own mistakes, accepting hugs from strangers and dogs alike.

Australia taught me to be open, to reach out first, to smile before I spoke. I carried that home with me years later, long after I left Melbourne.

Even now, people in Vietnam sometimes blink in surprise when I greet them with a sudden hug. They freeze for a second, unsure what to do – then laugh, awkwardly but warmly. I always smile back, remembering the first time I was hugged by a stranger and how that small act cracked the world open for me.

Melbourne changed me in quiet ways. It made me softer, friendlier, freer. It taught me that belonging doesn’t mean blending in: it means being brave enough to stay yourself while the world folds its arms around you.

Pt4: The goodbye left unsaid

Life was good then – too good to notice it was about to change.

Ma had finally finished her degree. There were flowers in the kitchen, congratulatory phone calls, a lightness in her smile that I hadn’t seen in years. We started talking about Vietnam again.

At first, it sounded like a holiday. I was thrilled. I couldn’t wait to eat bún riêu cua again, to visit Grandma’s sister, to see the lanterns of Hội An I’d only heard about. I imagined coming back to Melbourne after a few weeks, with gifts for my friends and stories to tell.

I didn’t realize we weren’t coming back at all.

Boxes started appearing around the house, taped and labeled. Grandma cleaned the cupboards. Ma made long calls in Vietnamese, her voice soft but tired. I thought she was just organizing things, maybe preparing for our “trip.” When we went to school to say goodbye to my head teacher, I still didn’t understand why she hugged me tighter than usual.

I didn’t even tell Daisy.

The night before we left, I remember sitting on the floor, colouring in my notebook. Ma was folding clothes, Grandma humming softly. I thought about how I’d show Daisy the picture I was working on – two girls on a playground slide under a giant sun. I told myself I’d give it to her after the “holiday.”

The next morning, we left early. Melbourne was wrapped in mist. The car ride to the airport felt like any other drive. I pressed my face to the window, watching the houses pass by – Daisy’s neighborhood among them. For a second, I thought I saw her bike leaning against the gate. But we kept driving, and soon the streets blurred into distance.

Back then, I didn’t understand what it meant to leave without saying goodbye. How a single unsaid word could echo for years.

I never saw Daisy again. I don’t even know where she is now. Sometimes I search online, wondering if she still remembers the little Vietnamese girl who ruined her painting and later became her best friend. Maybe she’s forgotten. Maybe she hasn’t.

That unfinished goodbye became my quiet teacher.

It taught me that people drift away not because we choose to, but because we fail to notice the moment before the distance begins. That every shared laugh, every ordinary day, could be the last without us knowing.

Since then, I’ve tried to live differently – to be present, to mean it when I say hello, to look people in the eye when I leave, and to never let affection stay unspoken.

Sometimes, when I pass by a playground and see two girls on a slide, I still think of Daisy — and the picture I never got to give her.