It’s getting hotter now that June is here. I’ve been away from Vietnam for 15 years, and I’m not sure how things are now, but back then, summertime often meant flooding. When the rain came, especially in the summer months, the water would rise fast. The roads in our neighborhood weren’t even, so our house always seemed to get the worst of it. People avoided our street whenever possible. But for those who didn’t know, or were already too far along the way—their motorbikes would stall in the middle of the flood.

Some of my neighbors would stand outside their homes, ready to help anyone stuck in the water, dragging motorcycles to dry spots or into garages. Others would keep watch over the sewage drains, trying to prevent trash from blocking the flow. My siblings and I would fold paper boats and race them down the streams rushing past our gate. Of course, our parents scolded us for playing in the dirty water. It definitely wasn’t clean. But when you grow up with something, even if it’s unpleasant, it becomes strangely familiar. Normal, even.

My parents were always frustrated. They blamed the city for poor infrastructure, for overbuilding, for not cleaning the streets. But we lived in that house for 20 years. That was our street. We grew up with the rain, with the chaos of flooding, and over time it became just another part of life. A mess, but a mess filled with care and community. People complained, but they still helped one another. They were angry, yet still stayed. For decades.

My parents eventually moved to a newer, bigger home in a neighborhood where floods don’t happen anymore. But the last time I visited, I stopped by our old house and saw some of our neighbors. Many of them were still there. Still grumbling about the water, still staying put. I asked if they had any plans to move. Without hesitation, they all said no.

And I smiled, understanding that what truly holds people in place isn’t the absence of problems but the presence of each other.