“Bitter Love” – a student-written short story

by Jerrard Chan (Year 11)

She sits at the wooden table, and the quiet of the room feels heavy, almost palpable. A warm evening ray of light gives the room a comfortable, cozy glow. In front of her, a simple meal waits: a bowl of rice, a small dish of minced pork, and a plate of bitter gourd.

Without thinking, she snatches up her chopsticks and hastily reaches out for the pork, shovelling it into her bowl like she was a little girl again. She glances up instinctively, right to the opposite end of the table, where her mother sits. Her mother’s face is one of sophistication, eyes dark and soft, lined with years of quiet endurance, hair streaked with faded grey.

She munches slowly, but her gaze is still fixed on her mother, who, unsurprisingly, sits in silence. Her hand moves towards the pork again, but she hesitates, catching her mother’s steady eyes. Her mother gently nudges the untouched plate of bitter gourd towards her, sliding some into her bowl.

In Chinese, it is called ku gua. Ku means bitter or painful living. Gua means melon. Her mother always told her that only people who have experienced ku can truly savour bitter gourd, but she never understood what that meant.

“Eat,” her mother would say, almost absentmindedly.

Half-formed complaints would creep up her throat, but she knew it wouldn’t change anything. The response was always the same: “It’s good for you.” But her mother also knew that no persuasion could get her to eat it. She would throw it away the instant her mother wasn’t looking.

She takes a bite, finally. Curiosity, not compliance, drives her to do so. She wants to know how her mother finds solace in something so harsh. The bitterness blooms in her mouth, sharp, unforgiving, slicing her tongue. She winces, continuing to chew slowly, but now she sees it—the lines around her mother’s mouth, the faint weariness in her eyes—how had she never noticed it before? All those years, her mother sat across from her in silence, eating the same bitter gourd she insisted on preparing, while the young girl across from her could only think of the taste.

Another bite. The bitterness sinks deeper, but now it feels different. It’s not the horrible jolt she remembers, but something layered, something that stays there like an uninvited guest. She swallows, her throat tightening just slightly, not from the taste, but from the weight of it all—the meals, the sacrifices, the love.

Her mother’s image flickers slightly, the edges blurring as the evening light fades. But the presence remains. She isn’t quite here, and yet she is, in every bite, in every thought.

She breathes heavily.

The bitterness no longer stings. It almost feels…right, like an understanding that had been shrouded in plain sight for so long, but after being tasted felt known. Her mother doesn’t speak. And she doesn’t need to; she doesn’t need to hear what was never said. The bitterness has become its own kind of language, conveying things that were impossible to impart without it. One that she finally understands.

She picks up another slice and savours it, not for its taste, but for what it represents. The love. The sacrifices. The strength that she gave to her daughter. The bitterness lingers, but it no longer overwhelms. It nourishes.

And so, she eats.

This short story was originally published in Ampersand 2024, Trinity Grammar School’s Annual Literary Magazine.