Pham Hong never imagined she’d run an orphanage.

She was just trying to survive. Raised in poverty, given up as a child, later adopted. When her adoptive parents moved to the U.S., she stayed behind in Vietnam, quietly building a life of her own. She found work at a garment factory, worked her way to a management role, raised two sons, and kept going.

But the thought never left her: what if I could give other children what I never had?

After her husband passed, she sold her home and bought a small block of land in Long A province. She moved in with her son and opened her doors. No grand opening, no funding, just a small house and a quiet intention to care for a few children who needed somewhere to go.

That was 2012.

She planned for four, maybe five. But word travels quickly when someone says yes. One child became six. Then more. Over 12 years, she has raised more than 70.

There are 37 children at Thien An today. Some are still learning to walk. Some have moved on, found jobs, or started families of their own. A few were reunited with relatives. But the ones who stay are raised not just with routine and rules, they are raised with intention.

Older kids help look after the younger ones. There’s no staff roster, no paid carers. Just Pham, her sons, and her daughter-in-law, each playing a role. Her elder son cooks and tends to the children, fixing phones on the side to help cover costs. Her younger son’s family works during the day, returns in the evenings. The plan is simple: when Pham is ready to step back, he will take over.

There’s no licensed playground here. No social media presence. Just a shared concrete yard where the children eat, study, and play and somehow make space for joy in all of it.

Support comes when it can. A local business donates rice each month. A neighbour once helped build an extra room. Most contributions are in-kind, because that’s how Ms. Hong prefers it: things she can give directly to the children.

She’s also known for something else…something quieter. When she hears about a woman facing an unexpected pregnancy, especially one considering abandoning her child, she reaches out. No judgement. Just a promise: Have the baby. I’ll take care of them.

Years ago, her adoptive family found her again. They offered to bring her to the U.S., to reunite. She said thank you, and stayed.

Because Thien An isn’t just a project. It’s her life’s work. One that keeps unfolding with every child who walks through the gate. There’s no spotlight here. No fundraising campaigns. But what’s happening inside these walls is no less extraordinary.

After we first visited, Pham told us she had been praying she could be eligible, but never imagined someone would choose her. She thought she was too small. Too under-resourced. But after speaking with local businesses, neighbours, even the police, it became clear: this place was special. And when the time came to tell her she was getting a solar system, her face said it all.

It was a moment that will stay with us forever.