He said keep it whole. They divided it anyway.

Two years, and not one word to his younger brother. Same city, twenty minutes apart by motorbike, and still at Tết they sat at opposite ends of the table. This year's memorial day for their grandfather, the mat was laid out in the yard before dawn, and he already knew how it would go: both of them would be there, both would stand at the altar, and neither would say anything.

It started with the land their grandparents left behind. They split it, and that was the end of speaking — it was that plain. On the day, the two of them stood at the altar side by side, two incense sticks planted together in the bowl, smoke drifting the same way, and two years of silence in between. Then their mother, on a low stool beside them, repeated something he'd let himself forget: while he was alive, their grandfather had asked them to keep it whole. Not to divide it. He stood there with nothing to say. The land was what their grandfather left. The ones who cut it in two were the brothers.

The last guests left near eleven. Just the two of them in the kitchen then, and a tall stack of dishes. His brother said it flatly — go get some rest — and poured two glasses of tea onto the table. He picked his up, took a mouthful, and stopped. No sugar. Exactly how he's always taken it. The sugar jar was still sealed, the spoon still dry. Two years without a word, and his brother had forgotten none of it. He finished the glass, then went and stood at the sink and washed the rest of the dishes.

The next morning he went out to look at the land. The boundary posts were still driven in a straight line, right where the two of them had once stood shouting. But the grass had grown just as tall on both sides — no beds turned, no foundation poured, nothing sold, nothing planted. Two years, and neither of them had touched the thing he'd fought so hard to win. Neither of them had ever really needed that land. They'd needed to win. He told his brother: the land — let it go. His brother didn't answer, just said "yeah."

The land lay fallow. So did we. Next season we can plant again.

Nobody apologised, nobody brought the old argument back up. It was only that the two of them stood out in the yard that morning, looking the same direction, a little longer than in other years. And you — the person you're not speaking to, what is it the two of you are angry about, and is it worth the time going by?