My aunt, who was my mom’s only current living sibling, her older sister, passed away three days ago. She wasn’t feeling well, got hospitalized, and died from a stroke. My mom got a text message very early this morning and a call from one of her nephews, who informed her. Of course, my mom was completely distraught. She left Vietnam in 1971 during the Vietnam (American) War. She didn’t see her sister or any of her family until January 2008. That’s 37 years of not seeing your blood family. It was an emotional reunion, and one that was short lived since we only stayed there for about 2.5 weeks. My parents never went back to Vietnam after that visit. And so, that was the last time we saw my aunt.

It’s strange to call my mom’s sister my aunt because I didn’t really know her or anything about her until I went to Vietnam in 2008. My mom always said that her sister was why she had everything she had. My aunt was the one who helped her learn English when their mother refused to let my mom go to school, saying school was wasted on a girl, especially the youngest in the family. My aunt was the one who encouraged my mom to apply for the U.S. Army position, which eventually led to her meeting my dad at work. My aunt was the one who housed her in Quy Nhon while my mom worked. She was also the one who convinced my mom to reconsider the marriage proposal my dad had made, after my mom first rejected my dad, saying she couldn’t go to the U.S. and leave her family behind. My mom always said that she owed her life first to her sister, and then to my dad. When I first met her, she ran to me, cried, pulled me into her arms, and held me tightly. I held her back, but it felt strange since I knew nothing about her. I still remember how skinny, bony, and frail she was, yet her grip and hold were so strong. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry because I didn’t really know her. And given our mom never taught Ed and me Vietnamese, I could never communicate with her the whole time I was in Vietnam. My mom was the perpetual (and exhausted) translator.

I got food poisoning for the first only real time in my life on that trip to Vietnam in 2008. And I could see her worry; that’s one thing that she and my mom shared: constant worry about literally everything imaginable. My aunt made me ginger tea every day. She boiled me a special chicken broth. She took care of me like I was her own child. And all I could say back to her was, “cam on” (thank you) in my perfectly accented Vietnamese that only knew how to say just a handful of Vietnamese words. I guess my ear picked up my mom’s accent over all the years listening to her speak in her central Vietnamese accent, and I was told that even though I knew only a few words, I spoke them as though I was a native speaker.

I know my mom is hurting now. I am sure she feels deep regret for only having visited her sister once the entire time she’s been in the U.S. She probably regrets not sending her more money. I’m sure she’s full of complicated feelings and deep sadness now that her only living sibling is now gone. But on my side, I’m not sure what to do to help make her feel better. It’s a hard place to be when you want to help someone, but there’s literally nothing you can do to comfort them. Losing an aunt is a loss for me, too, given she is my blood-related aunt. But it’s such a distant loss that I don’t really feel anything, as sad as that may be. It’s like hearing that a friend’s friend passed. It’s sad, but there’s not much else there to feel.