The first time I wore áo dài was when my nanny dressed me up for a family photoshoot when I was six. The five of us squeezed onto two motorbikes, squinting our eyes and sweating because being outside in Ho Chi Minh City at midday felt as if the sun was pouring lava on us. I hated wearing áo dài because of how tight it was around the armpit, and the silk smelled like saliva. I made sure my nanny heard my complaints, to which she replied, as I’d anticipated, “This is expensive. This is silk.”

Before I could moan another word, we were already under the awning of the studio. In an air-conditioned room, the photographer told me to pose as a noble giving commands to my brother, who was dressed as a fisherman. The four of us took our turns with the cameras, forgetting that the sunlight through the window had softened. It was then that I noticed my nanny sitting on the bench alone in a corner next to the window, folding our clothes.

• Tags: Issue 45, Khoa Nguyen, Vietnam