Critique on this short story (story, structure, arc, pace, conflict, obstacles and characters: "The air crackled with joyful energy, the scent of banh chung (sticky rice cakes), and thit kho tau (braised pork with duck eggs) filling the cosy living room. Hiền, a petite old lady sat in a plush armchair, a contented smile gracing her lips. Her children bustled around the room, their laughter echoing off the ornately carved wooden cabinets.
Her daughter, Nguyệt, knelt beside her, carefully adjusting the silk ao dai (a traditional Vietnamese long dress), that flowed over Hiền’s wrinkled frame. Nguyệt’s husband, Cường, wrestled with their two young children, Minh and Nhi, who giggled uncontrollably as they wriggled free from his grasp.
“Don’t be such monkeys,” Nguyệt chided playfully, her voice laced with amusement.
Minh, the older of the two, with his shock of black hair that mirrored his father’s, shot his sister a mischievous grin before darting towards the towering apricot blossom tree that occupied a corner of the room. Nhi, a wisp of a girl with her mother’s dark eyes, toddled after him, her tiny hand clutching a red envelope.
Laughter erupted once more as Minh fumbled with a red envelope perched precariously on a branch, finally managing to snag it. He tore it open with a flourish, revealing nothing inside. Nhi squealed with delight, her chubby fingers clutching at a similar envelope that her dad dangled in front of her.
“Careful, those are for decoration only,” Hiền cautioned, hunching down to ruffle Nhi’s hair.
The doorbell’s chime cut through the air, momentarily silencing the room. Cường rose and hurried towards the doorway. A chorus of greetings filled the air as Hiền’s son, Thái, and his wife, Vân, entered, ushering in a wave of warm hugs and excited chatter.
Thái, tall and broad-shouldered, knelt before Hiền and presented her with a small, beautifully wrapped box.
“Happy Tet, Mama,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
Hiền beamed, her wrinkles deepening at the corners of her eyes. “Happy Tet, son,” she replied, her voice a gentle rasp. “You shouldn’t have gotten me anything.”
Thái chuckled. “Nonsense. It’s Tet, Ma.”
As the evening wore on, the house overflowed with joy. Bowls of stuffed bitter melon soup, and dishes of spring rolls, were passed around the table. Stories were exchanged, memories recounted, and plans for the coming year made.
Later, after the children had been coaxed to sleep, the adults lingered around the table, sipping steaming cups of green tea. The conversation turned nostalgic.
Hiền’s eyes twinkled as she recounted a particularly chaotic Tet from her childhood. “Your uncle Quang,” she chuckled, directing her words at Thái, “once set off a firecracker inside the house. Nearly scared the life out of your poor grandma.”
A collective sigh of amusement rippled around the table. As the night deepened, drowsiness began to claim them. One by one, they bid farewell and made their way out, leaving behind a lingering warmth and the promise of another gathering soon.
Hiền, however, remained seated long after the last guest had departed. A lone tear traced a path down her wrinkled cheek. The once vibrant scene had faded, replaced by the stark silence of her empty living room.
She looked down at her lap, her fingers clutching the worn red envelope nestled in her hands. A wave of disorientation washed over her. Where was everyone? Why was she alone?
Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on her shoulder. A young woman with a kind smile stood beside her.
“It’s time for bed, Grandma,” the woman said softly.
Hiền looked up at her, a frown creasing her brow. “Who are you?” she questioned, her voice laced with confusion.
The young woman gently smiled. “I’m Nhi, your cute little beloved grandchild. Don’t you remember?”
Hiền shook her head, the memories of the evening fading like mist. “Nhi?” she echoed, the name sounding foreign on her tongue.
The young woman helped the old lady to her feet. As Hiền stood up, she glanced downwards at the doorway.
A jumble of shoes.
Hiền stared at them. 
The young woman, noticing the shift in Hiền’s demeanour, knelt and clutched the two scattered bright pink sandals and placed them back to the familiar jumble beneath Hiền’s bed, a silent reminder of a family, of laughter, of a life the lady could only glimpse through the hazy veil of her amnesia.
The name tag on the young woman’s blouse shows her name: “Nurse Thuỷ Tiên”.