At dinner time, the family gathered around the dining table. Mom had cooked a few home-style dishes, and Dad was serving food 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 unusually clear. Mom's face instantly turned red, and my sister's eyes widened. Dad was stunned for two seconds, cleared his throat, and decided to answer seriously.
"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 and firm, and they felt very elastic to the touch.”
Dad gestured a circle shape.
“By the time you’re in your thirties or forties, it turns into something like a pear—feels okay, but it’s already kind of sagging, not so perky anymore.”
Xiaoming nodded, seemingly taking notes seriously.
"When you're fifty years old... then you'll turn into an onion."
"Onions?" Xiao Ming looked puzzled.
Dad sighed, his expression complicated, and said:
“Yes. When you look at them, you’ll cry.”
The dining table fell silent for a second, then Mom couldn't hold back first, laughing so hard she sprayed her food. Little sister burst out laughing too. Xiao Ming didn't fully understand but thought Dad was amazing, able to answer such a question so vividly.
Dad couldn't help but laugh himself, wiping his eyes as he said, '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 a fixed code in the family. 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 silently and in unison add:
"Onions... make people cry when you look at them."
When Xiaoming grew up, he told this joke to classmates, always getting a roomful of laughter. And 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 like watermelon, soft like pear, always ending up making people laugh until they cried, like onions.
A year after the "Onion Theory" was proposed, Xiao Ming entered middle school. Boys in puberty were especially curious about bodily topics, so he naturally became the class's "knowledge sharer."
Once during a class break, several boys surrounded him, insisting on hearing the full version. Xiaoming cleared his throat, imitating his dad's tone, and went through the watermelon, pear, and onion. When he got to the part 'looking at them will make you cry,' the whole group burst out laughing, even 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, with a serious expression: 'Where did you learn these words?'
Xiaoming answered honestly: "My dad taught me."
The teacher was both amused and exasperated, finally advising, 'In the future, keep such metaphors to private conversations; don't spread them at school.'
After returning home, Xiaoming told his father what had happened. His father was not angry at all; instead, he was a little proud: “That shows my teaching worked well. But the teacher is right, you should still restrain yourself in public.”
Mom shook her head beside her: 'All because of what you taught. Now look, our son has become the 'fruit lecturer' at school.'
Several years later, Xiao Ming had his first girlfriend. After dating for a while, as if possessed by ghosts and gods, he told the other party the theory of “three kinds of breasts.” The girlfriend first froze, then laughed until she bent forward and backward, saying while laughing:
“Your dad summed it up way too well. So am I a watermelon now, or a pear?”
Xiaoming quickly waved his hands: "Of course it's watermelon! The freshest kind."
His girlfriend pinched his face: "You're so smooth-talking. But I'll accept that joke; I can tell it to others later too."
During college, Xiaoming brought this joke back to the dorm. Every late-night chat session, someone would ask for “the fruit lesson” again. After listening, one roommate said thoughtfully: “Actually, that onion metaphor isn’t just about appearance, but also about mood — when you see yourself getting old, you’ll want to cry too.”
That一句 made the dormitory quiet for a few seconds, and then there was another wave 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 something else, but ended up sharing his dad's version. After he finished, the whole table burst into laughter; even the usually most serious leader had reddened eyes, wiping tears while saying:
"That joke is a bit harsh, but true."
When Xiaoming went back home to visit relatives, he told his father about his “path of transmission” over the years. After listening, his father stroked his now somewhat graying hair and said with a smile:
"It seems that the most successful work of my life was not making money, but this fruit classification method."
Hearing from the kitchen, Mom chimed in loudly: 'Success what? Every time I chop onions, I remember your metaphor and laugh so much I can't cut properly.'
Dad walked into the kitchen, hugged Mom from behind, and deliberately said in an exaggerated tone: 'Wife, you are now... a ripe pear, sweet and full of charm.'
Mom elbowed him: 'Stop flattering. In a few years, when I turn into an onion, see if you still dare to shed tears.'
The two laughed together in a heap. Xiaoming stood in the living room, looking at his parents’ backs, and suddenly felt that this joke that started at the dining table had already become part of the family. It was not just a punchline, but their way of growing old together, teasing each other together, and accepting time together.
Later Xiaoming became a father himself. When his son was five years old, one day while eating, he suddenly asked:
"Dad, how many kinds of women are there..."
Xiaoming paused his chopsticks and instinctively looked at his father. The old father sat opposite, a mischievous smile in his eyes, as if saying: your turn.
Xiaoming took a deep breath and decided to continue passing on this legacy.
He put down his chopsticks and looked at his son seriously before saying:
"All right, son. Women have three different kinds of breasts..."]}]}]}
Outside the window, the sun set, and laughter rose again at 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 can make people smile knowingly, occasionally even laughing to the point of tears.
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, a family tradition. But when you tell it in the future, remember to add one thing—whether it's a watermelon, a pear, or an onion, they are all mothers, and all should be cherished.'
Xiaoming nodded. His son seemed to understand vaguely but had already remembered the three key words.
In the blink of an eye, another ten years passed. Their son entered high school and also began to grow sensitive about topics related to the body. Once, he came home and asked Xiaoming, 'Dad, when you heard Grandpa talk about it back then, did you also find it funny?'
Xiaoming thought about it: 'The funny part is true, 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.'
The son was silent for a moment, then said: “Then should I be worried about what kind of fruit I'll turn into in the future?”
Xiaoming smiled: "Boys' metaphors are different. You might become... a rotten banana? No, don't learn my random metaphors. What's important is not to care too much about these things."
At the same time, Xiaoming'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 it off:
"So you want to bring that up again? Go ahead, keep bringing it up. Anyway, I'm already used to being laughed at by you lot. You dirty men, your own bellies are big already, and you still have the nerve to talk about others."
The old father would always step in to smooth things over, while not forgetting to add a cutting remark: '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 was still amused.
At family gatherings, this anecdote almost became a required opening. Xiaoming's sister, brother, along with their spouses and children, had all heard it more than once. One Spring Festival, as everyone sat around the hotpot, the old father suddenly put down his chopsticks, cleared his throat seriously:
"I'm adding a new version today."
The whole venue fell silent.
"Watermelons will turn into pears, pears will turn into onions, but after onions are cut, they can be stir-fried with eggs, stewed with meat, and become the one dish on the table that brings out the flavor of everything else. So don’t just remember the tears; remember that in the end, it can still be treated well."
As the words fell, no one spoke at the dining table for a moment. Then, Mom gently took his hand, her eyes slightly red, but she smiled and said: 'Old thing, you occasionally say something human.'
Xiaoming looked at his parents and suddenly realized: this joke that had started from his childhood had quietly become the family's way of facing aging. It wrapped the gentlest acceptance in the crudest, most direct metaphor.
Years later, the old father passed away first. On the night after the funeral, the family sat together for dinner, the atmosphere somewhat silent. The son suddenly spoke:
"Grandpa used to say that after fifty, a person is like an onion... so what about now?"
Xiaoming thought for a long time and replied: 'Right now, it's a seed. Plant it in the soil, and a new watermelon will grow again.'
Upon hearing this, Mom's tears fell, but she laughed at the same time. Wiping her tears, she said: 'You two, father and son, one outdoes the other with wild metaphors. But... I like it.'
Later on, Xiao Ming himself gradually began to show signs of stress. Once, while looking in the mirror, he touched the loosening skin under his chin and suddenly said to the mirror:
"Soon, onion."
Hearing this, the wife walked over and hugged him: 'Then I'll just think of you as an onion that can shed tears. Anyway, I'm used to it.'
The two looked at each other and smiled.
And that initial question—'How many kinds of breasts do women have?'—had long ceased to be merely 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 will retell the stories of watermelons, pears, and onions. As they tell the stories, laughter arises, and occasionally someone truly sheds tears.
But in those tears, there was no longer only regret, but also gratitude.
Grateful that someone is willing to use the most clumsy, most direct way to tell the truth of life to the next generation.
Also grateful that, after all the changes, the family was still willing to sit at the same dining table, listen to this old joke that had been told for decades, and then laugh out loud together.
Just like when cutting onions—the sting is real, the flavor is real, and the final dish is steaming hot and filling.
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