Your baby is beautiful

Minh stepped into the lift, his shopping basket in one hand and a fleeting thought in his mind: what would he cook tonight? He barely noticed the couple who entered with him, a man and a woman with a baby strapped to her back. The lift doors slid shut, and the confined space brought their presence closer, undeniable. Minh’s eyes wandered, settling on the baby. The child’s round cheeks glowed with youthful radiance, eyes wide and curious.

Minh hesitated. The words hovered at the edge of his tongue: Your son, no, your baby is beautiful. The baby looked like a boy, but Minh knew better than to assume. Still, doubt whispered. Would it sound good? Or would it come off as awkward, maybe even creepy? In that moment, Minh’s mind played through every possible response he could imagine, anticipating all reactions like a series of branching paths, each with its own outcome. Yet something in him nudged: Say it.

In the close confines of the lift, Minh also noticed the woman’s face. Three short, parallel scars graced her cheek, faint but unmistakable. Minh knew from scattered readings and conversations that for some, such marks were symbols of beauty and strength. His mind circled back to his own words. Would they resonate? Would they fit within a culture he barely understood?

“Your baby is beautiful,” Minh finally said, his voice steady yet quiet, as though testing the waters.

The couple turned toward him. For a split second, they looked startled, their expressions unreadable. Then their faces softened. The woman smiled warmly, and the man replied, “Thank you very much.”

Minh’s shoulders relaxed, and a faint smile crossed his lips. The exchange was simple, yet it carried weight: a step beyond his usual caution, a calculated risk that had paid off. The warmth of their response settled within him, a small victory in the battle against the paralysis of overanalysis.

But then the man gestured toward his partner and added, “She is very beautiful too.”

Minh’s mind froze for a moment, caught off guard by the twist. He hadn’t anticipated this, not in a hundred scenarios he’d played out in his mind. Yet he quickly understood. Perhaps the man had been waiting for an opening, a chance to say aloud something he’d thought but not voiced. The compliment to their baby had given him that chance, a window through which he could express affection for his partner, something she had often remarked was missing. Minh almost heard it in his mind, as he watched the man’s face. The way he looked at his partner seemed to say it all, even with a melodic flow and clear enunciation: “See now, I praise your beauty, even in front of a stranger!” It wasn’t that the man didn’t want to; he was simply shy. But if a stranger could freely compliment their baby, why should he hold back from saying what he had always wanted to tell his partner?

Minh struggled for a response but came up blank. Later, as he replayed the moment, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of what might have followed: “What do you want me to say, man? Yes? Then you’d ask if I was staring at your partner all this time and punch me. No? Then you’d ask if I thought she was ugly and punch me anyway.”

As the lift doors opened and the couple stepped out, they said to him: “We are from Nigeria, where are you from?” Minh replied quickly, “I am from Vietnam,” before heading to a different section of the supermarket. He didn’t want them to think: Something isn’t right, this stranger is following us.

Later, as Minh reflected on the encounter, he realised how far he’d come. Not long ago, he might have stayed silent, unwilling to take even the smallest risk in fear of how his words might land. But now, he chose to act. The words he’d spoken, Your baby is beautiful, had sounded good, not just to himself, but to the couple who had heard them. And in that brief moment, in the close proximity of a lift, Minh realised: the only way you could know whether something sounds good is to sound it out, loud.