Ha Bian Pham

Yesterday, the weight of a few extra pastries felt heavier than the numbers on the scale. A family of four came to my check-in counter at Tan Son Nhat Airport in Ho Chi Minh City, and as soon as I saw the familiar round boxes peeking out of their bags, I knew what was coming. Vietnamese people going back to Europe with suitcases full of bánh pía, mooncakes, and all the treats they can manage—it's something I see almost every day. Normally, I’d let a kilo or two slide. I have a half-sister in Germany, and I know how important it is to bring home a taste of Vietnam when you live far away.

But yesterday wasn’t normal. My supervisor, a man who rarely smiles and never breaks the rules, was standing right next to me, arms crossed, watching every move. The family—two exhausted parents and two kids who were on the edge of tears—looked at me pleadingly as the scale tipped just above the limit. I had no choice but to tell them they’d have to leave some things behind. Their faces fell. The mother’s hands shook as she repacked, moving treats into a plastic bag, pushing clothes into another. The kids started to cry.

My heart sank, but I had to keep my expression neutral, professional. My boss was watching. After a tense fifteen minutes, they finally got everything within the limit. But they couldn't take the extra bag. It was too much. Instead, they handed it to an airport cleaner, an older woman who accepted it with a grateful nod. I saw the mother's eyes well up as she waved goodbye to the pastries she had so carefully packed.

I didn’t say a word to my boss after he lectured me again about the rules. I’m 28, and I’ve been doing this job for two years. I know the rules. But I also know how much love and longing go into those boxes of food. Next time, if he’s not watching, I’ll bend the rules again. Some things are more important than the numbers on a scale.