At dinner time, the family gathered around the dining table. Mom had cooked a few home-style dishes, and Dad was serving himself when their son, Xiao Ming, suddenly put down his chopsticks and asked with a serious expression:
“Dad, how many kinds of breasts do women have?”
The sound of chopsticks falling onto the plate was exceptionally clear. Mom's face instantly flushed red, and my sister's eyes widened in surprise. Dad was stunned for two seconds, cleared his throat, and decided to answer seriously nonetheless.
"All right, son... women probably have three different kinds of breasts."
Xiaoming pricked up his ears.
"When they were in their twenties, their breasts were like watermelons—round, full, and firm, and they felt very elastic to the touch."
Dad gestured a circle with his hands.
"When you get to your thirties or forties, you become like a pear — still okay-looking, but already a bit droopy, not so spirited anymore."
Xiaoming nodded, seemingly taking notes seriously.
"After fifty years... then it will turn into an onion."
"Onions?" Xiaoming looked puzzled.
Dad sighed, his expression complicated, and said:
"Yes. When you look at them, you will shed tears."
The dining table was quiet for a second, then Mom couldn't hold back first, laughing so hard she sprayed out her rice. Little sister also burst out laughing. Xiao Ming seemed to understand but not fully, but felt Dad was amazing, able to answer such a question so vividly.
Dad himself couldn't help but laugh, wiping his eyes while saying: 'Finished asking? Hurry up and eat, don't overthink it.'
Mom patted her son's head: 'In the future, ask Mom first about such questions. Your dad's analogy is too hurtful.'
But from that day on, “watermelon, pear, onion” became the family’s fixed code words. Whenever a young female celebrity appeared on TV, Dad would quietly say “watermelon”; when he saw a middle-aged auntie, he would say “pear”; and once an older elder was mentioned, the whole family would tacitly say together:
"Onions... make people cry when they look at them."
After Xiaoming grew up, he told this anecdote to his classmates, and it always got the whole room laughing. His dad became the 'fruit teacher' at family gatherings, having to retell it whenever asked, laughing so hard he couldn't straighten up after finishing.
This simple dinner table Q&A eventually became the family's most chewable joke—sweet as watermelon, soft as pear, always ending with laughter that brings tears, like an onion.
The year after the "onion theory" was proposed, Xiaoming entered middle school. Boys in puberty were especially curious about bodily topics, so he naturally became the class's "knowledge sharer".
Once during a break, several boys gathered around him, insisting on hearing the full version. Xiao Ming cleared his throat, imitating his father's tone, and recounted the stories about watermelon, pear, and onion. When he reached the part 'looking at them will make you cry,' the whole group burst into laughter, even the girls passing by couldn't help but glance over.
The news quickly reached the homeroom teacher's ears. The teacher called Xiaoming to the office, looking serious: 'Where did you learn these words?'
Xiaoming answered honestly: "My dad taught me."
The teacher was both amused and exasperated, finally having to advise, 'In the future, keep such metaphors to private conversations; don't spread them around school.'
After returning home, Xiao Ming told his dad what happened. Instead of getting angry, his dad was somewhat pleased: 'It shows my teaching was effective. But the teacher is right, you should be more restrained in public.'
Mom shook her head beside us: "It's all because of what you taught. Now look, our son has become the 'fruit lecturer' at school."
A few years later, Xiao Ming had his first girlfriend. After dating for a while, he somehow ended up telling her the theory of the "three kinds of breasts." The girlfriend first froze, then burst out laughing, laughing so hard she bent over, and said while laughing:
"Your father sums things up too well. So what am I now, a watermelon or a pear?"
Xiaoming quickly waved his hands: "Of course it's watermelon! The freshest kind."
The girlfriend pinched his cheek: 'Smooth talker. But I'll take that joke; I can tell it to others later.'
During university, Xiao Ming brought this joke to the dorm. Every late-night chat, someone would always request 'the fruit class one more time.' One roommate, after listening, said thoughtfully: 'Actually, that onion metaphor isn't just about appearance, it's also about mood—seeing yourself getting old can make you want to cry too.'
One sentence made the dormitory quiet for a few seconds, and then there was another round of more complicated laughter.
After Xiaoming graduated and started working, during a company team-building event, after several rounds of drinks, colleagues egged him on to tell a joke. He originally intended to tell a different one, but ended up sharing his dad's version. After he finished, the whole table erupted in laughter. Even the usually most serious leader had reddened eyes, wiping away tears while saying:
"That joke is a bit brutal, but true."
When returning home to visit relatives, Xiao Ming told his dad about the 'transmission paths' over the years. After listening, his dad stroked his already graying hair and said with a smile:
“It seems that the most successful work of my life is not how much money I made, but this fruit classification method.”
Mom, hearing from the kitchen, loudly chimed in, "Success what? It makes me think of your metaphor every time I chop onions, laughing so much I can't cut properly."
Dad walked into the kitchen, hugged Mom from behind, and deliberately said in an exaggerated tone: 'Honey, you are now... a mature pear, sweet and full of charm.'
Mom elbowed him: "Stop flattering me. In a few years, when I turn into an onion, see if you still dare to shed tears."
The two laughed together. Xiao Ming stood in the living room, looking at his parents' backs, and suddenly felt that this joke, which had started at the dining table, had become part of the family. It was not just a bit; it was their way of growing old together, teasing each other together, and accepting time together.
Later Xiao Ming became a father himself. When his son was five, one day while they were eating, the boy suddenly asked:
“Dad, how many kinds of women are there……”
Xiaoming paused his chopsticks and instinctively looked at his father. The old father was sitting opposite, a mischievous smile in his eyes, as if saying: It's your turn.
Xiaoming took a deep breath and decided to continue this legacy.
He put down his chopsticks, looked seriously at his son, and said:
"All right, son. Women have three different kinds of breasts..."
Outside the window, the sun was setting. Laughter rose again around the dinner table. The stories of watermelon, pear, and onion began a new round.
Some jokes become outdated, some metaphors get refreshed. But this bit about the body, about age, about accepting oneself, is like that home-cooked dish eaten for decades: every time it's served, it brings a knowing smile, and occasionally even tears of laughter.
Just like an onion.
The day Xiaoming passed on the 'Fruit Theory' to his son, the old father laughed especially happily at the dinner table. Patting his grandson's head, he said: 'Good, good, family learning heritage. But when you explain it later, remember to add one thing—whether it's watermelon, pear, or onion, they're all mothers, all should be cherished.'
Xiaoming nodded. His son seemed to understand vaguely but had already remembered three key words.
Another ten years passed in the blink of an eye. My son entered high school and also began to become sensitive about body-related topics. Once he came home and asked Xiaoming, 'Dad, when Grandpa told you back then, did you also think it was funny?'
Xiaoming thought about it: 'The funny part is real, but I only realized later that grandpa was actually using the most straightforward way to tell me that time changes everything, including the appearances we care about.'
After a while, the son said, “Then should I start worrying about what kind of fruit I’ll turn into in the future?”
Xiaoming smiled: "The metaphor for boys is different. You might become... a rotten banana? No, don't learn my random metaphors. The important thing is, don't care too much about these things."
At the same time, Xiao Ming’s mother — the one who was compared to an "onion" back then — was already in her seventies. Her hearing was a bit poor, but she was astonishingly sensitive to this joke. Whenever someone in the family mentioned "onion," she would smile and wave her hand:
“You’re bringing me up again, huh? Go ahead, bring me up. Anyway, I’m already used to being laughed at by you guys. You filthy men, your own bellies are already big, and you still have the nerve to talk about other people.”
The old father would always come out to smooth things over at this time, while not forgetting to add a jab: "Who dares say you're an onion? You are now... a dried fig, the longer it ages, the more flavorful it becomes."
Mom gave him a glare, but still couldn't help laughing.
At family gatherings, this anecdote almost became a required opening. Xiao Ming's sister, brother, along with their spouses and children, had all heard it more than once. One Spring Festival, as everyone sat around the hot pot, the old father suddenly put down his chopsticks, cleared his throat seriously, and said:
"Today I’m adding a new version."
The whole venue fell silent.
“Watermelons will turn into Asian pears, Asian pears will turn into onions, but after onions are cut up, they can be stir-fried with eggs, stewed with meat, and become the one thing in a tableful of dishes that brings out the flavor. So, don’t just remember the tears; also remember that in the end, it can still be treated well.”
As the words fell, for a moment no one spoke at the dinner table. Then Mom gently took his hand, her eyes slightly red, but she smiled and said, 'Old thing, you occasionally say something decent.'
Looking at his parents, Xiaoming suddenly realized: this joke that started from his childhood had quietly become the family's way of facing aging. It wrapped the gentlest acceptance in the most vulgar, most direct metaphor.
After a few more years, the old father passed away first. On the night after the funeral, the family sat together for dinner, the atmosphere somewhat silent. Suddenly, the son spoke up:
“Grandpa used to say, after fifty you’re an onion…… then what about now?”
Xiaoming thought for a long time and replied: 'It's seeds now. Planted in the soil, they'll grow new watermelons again.'
Upon hearing this, Mom's tears fell, but she laughed at the same time. Wiping her tears, she said, "You father and son, one is better than the other at making wild metaphors. But... I like it."
Later on, Xiao Ming himself gradually started showing signs of being a duck-pear. One time, looking in the mirror, he touched the loosening skin on his chin and suddenly said to the mirror:
"Soon, Onion."
The wife, hearing this from nearby, walked over and hugged him: 'Then I'll consider you an onion that can shed tears. Anyway, I'm already used to it.'
The two exchanged a smile.
And that initial question—'How many kinds of breasts do women have?'—had long ceased to be just about the body. It became a family code about time, about love, about how to laughingly accept change.
Whenever a new generation asks, the old generation retells the stories of watermelons, pears, and onions. As they tell them, laughter arises, and occasionally, someone truly sheds tears.
But in those tears, there was no longer only regret, but gratitude.
I'm grateful that someone is willing to use the most clumsy, most direct way to tell the next generation the truth about life.
Also grateful that, after all the changes, the family was still willing to sit at the same dining table, listen to that old joke that had been told for decades, and then laugh together.
Just like when cutting onions—the sting is real, the flavor is real, and the final dish made is steaming hot and can fill you up.
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