The day I lost my job, my banking app sent me a notification: “Your balance is insufficient to complete this transaction.”
I read it three times.
Not because I was surprised. I already knew I was broke. What made me stand still in the middle of the subway station was the way my phone described it: brief, polite, and completely free of blame. As if life itself had automatically sorted me into the “not eligible” category.
I put my phone away and boarded a packed train. Twenty-seven minutes from the central station back to my rented room. Twenty-seven minutes to decide whether I should buy discounted boxed rice or instant noodles for dinner.
Three months earlier, I’d thought I was investing in the future.
I worked overtime to earn a raise. Signed up for a course to change careers. Turned down get-togethers with friends because “there’ll be time later.” Even when Mom called, I’d often watch the screen until it went dark, then text back: “I’m busy. I’ll call you this weekend.”
I had handed over today to a day that had never existed.
In return, I got a thank-you email from the company and one month of severance pay.
When I reached the last station, it was raining. I stood under the awning and opened my contacts. My finger lingered over Mom’s name for a long time.
Then I didn’t call.
I was afraid to hear her voice. Afraid she’d ask, “Have you been doing okay lately?” and I wouldn’t know how to answer. Afraid one ordinary question would be enough to reveal that I’d used nearly all my strength pretending to be someone in control of my life.
That evening, I sat at the small dining table and spread all my assets across its surface: an old laptop, two bank cards, six million eight hundred thousand dong in savings, and a sheet of paper listing the things I’d been putting off.
Call Mom.
Sleep seven full hours.
Go to the dentist.
See Minh again.
Find a job that doesn’t make me hate mornings.
I looked at the list. Not one item would make me rich overnight. But for the first time, I realized I’d misunderstood the word “investment.”
I used to think investing meant giving something up today to get more back tomorrow.
But if tomorrow isn’t certain, the only thing I truly own is how I spend today.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Mom: “Are you home yet? It’s raining hard. Remember to eat something hot.”
I placed my finger on the screen. The usual reply was already waiting in my head: “I’m fine. Go to bed early, Mom.”
I deleted it.
“Mom, I just lost my job.”
The three dots appeared almost immediately. Disappeared. Then appeared again.
I imagined Mom sitting at the old wooden table, taking off her glasses and reading my message over and over. Maybe she’d worry. Maybe she’d scold me for hiding it. Maybe she’d ask how much money I needed.
I typed more:
“But I don’t need money yet. I just want to talk for a little while.”
This time, Mom called me directly.
I answered.
Neither of us said anything for the first few seconds. Outside the window, rain hammered the metal roof like a debt coming due.
“Have you eaten?” Mom asked.
I laughed. It was a very small laugh, but it was enough to make my throat ache.
“Not yet.”
“Then go cook some noodles. I’ll wait until you’re done eating, and then we’ll talk.”
I stood up. Opened the cupboard. Took out the last packet of noodles.
While the water boiled, Mom told me about the tree in front of the house putting out new shoots. I told her I’d lost my job. Neither of us offered any grand advice. Neither of us promised tomorrow would be better.
We just talked until the noodles went cold.
That night, I added another line to the sheet of paper:
“Investment, first and foremost, means holding on to the things that make you want to keep living.”
The next morning, I opened my expense spreadsheet. Six million eight hundred thousand dong wasn’t enough to buy a secure future. But it could buy me a few months to find a decent job. I could set some aside for my health. I could use a little to meet Minh, who had invited me out for coffee three times and been put off three times with “whenever I’m free.”
I divided the money into four categories.
Survival.
Health.
Relationships.
Education.
The last category got the smallest share. Not because education wasn’t important, but because I’d used studying to hide from the things I needed to face.
I scheduled a dental appointment for Tuesday. Texted Minh on Wednesday. Called Mom on Sunday night instead of waiting for her to call first.
After that, I wrote a question at the top of the spreadsheet:
“If I only had one year left, what would I want my money to serve?”
I didn’t have an answer.
But for the first time in a long while, I sat down to look for one.