As someone who had tasted suffering, Nishimiya Shouko was painfully sensitive to the flavor of misfortune.
It was a bitter taste laced with sourness—black bitterness, white sourness.
It wasn't just her tongue that had to endure it; the very world before her eyes lost its color.
Unlike bitter melon, unhappiness carried no nutrition.
It didn't provide vitamins, didn't fill the stomach.
All it left behind was a gnawing hatred for one's own weakness in the moment, and endless regret afterward—regret that stole away whatever scraps of happiness one managed to gather.
Before the age of eleven, Shouko had hated bitter melon.
Whether in a salad or stir-fried with egg, it was never what anyone would call "delicious."
Bitter melon with fish had tender meat.
Stir-fried eggs with bitter melon were tasty too.
Considering how rarely her mother had time to cook, the fish and eggs felt even more precious.
But bitter melon itself? It was awful.
Still, refusing to eat it wasn't an option.
Not only that—she had to eat it cleanly and without hesitation.
Even when her face scrunched up from the bitterness, she had to recover quickly.
Yuzuru couldn't see.
She had to be the strong big sister.
Otherwise… Yuzuru would pretend to "like" bitter melon, and then force herself to eat it all, leaving only the good parts—the fish and eggs—for her sister.
She couldn't let that happen.
She couldn't be that useless, foolish older sister.
So Shouko tried her best.
She would pick out the fish bones for her grandmother, give the large chunks of egg to Yuzuru, and then quietly eat bitter melon together with her mother.
Her mother was incredible—she could eat bitter melon without so much as a frown, face as blank as ever.
Her grandmother once told her bitter melon had another name: "the half-life melon." Supposedly, only those who had walked through half of life's journey could truly taste its subtle beauty.
"But even now, I still can't stand it," her grandmother had chuckled. "Not just the flavor—chewing it is a struggle. What about you, Shouko? Do you like it?"
Shouko had seen her grandmother's expression when eating bitter melon.
The moment it touched her lips, her kindly, wrinkled face would twist with bitterness, the wrinkles folding even deeper.
"Hehe… I… I don' like it e-either… B-but Mama… Mama seems… to like it, s-so I… I want… to try… and… like it too…"
Eight-year-old Nishimiya Shouko had said that with a bright smile.
"Your mama, huh…" Her grandmother's words trailed off.
Her cloudy eyes swirled with complicated feelings.
Shouko didn't ask further.
When she was nine, in fourth grade, Shouko finally understood why her mother could eat bitter melon without even flinching.
That afternoon, during cleaning time after school, a boy had shouted something at her.
He'd said it loudly—clear enough that she should have been able to understand.
Shouko had tried, really tried, but she still couldn't make it out.
She hesitated.
For a long while, she stood frozen, then set down her broom and slowly walked to her desk.
She pulled out her notebook, and timidly approached the boy.
Her head was bowed the entire way.
She only saw her shoes as she walked.
But once she reached him, she forced herself to lift her face, wearing the expression she had practiced so many times at home.
Her grandmother had once asked about it, saying that expression looked like a stray puppy—kicked aside in the rain, still sticking out its tongue, begging for affection.
That had made Shouko oddly happy.
If she was like a little dog, that was fine.
Unremarkable. Unthreatening. Not the type anyone would hate.
So with that puppy-like smile, she nervously held out her notebook—already bracing herself to pick it up when he inevitably threw it back at her.
But instead of tossing it away like the others, the boy actually took it.
Casually, he began to write.
Relief filled her chest.
'It worked. My effort worked.'
'Nobody would bother to bully a tiny blade of grass by the roadside.'
Her heart lifted as she watched him write.
She didn't notice the looks of cruel amusement spreading among her classmates.
It was the kind of malice that made one's skin crawl.
The boy flipped the notebook back to her, even turning it so she could read it immediately.
"You and your mother are both unwanted women."
Ah, so that's what he'd said earlier.
It was such a simple sentence—why hadn't she understood it before?
The thought rose first, followed by an apologetic smile.
"Did you hear that? You and your mom are both unwanted. Your dad left because you can't hear. You're a nuisance!"
"…Ia orry."
The boy's voice struck again, and Shouko reflexively apologized.
But then she realized—he couldn't understand her words.
So she hurried to write "sorry" in her notebook.
But before she could even steady her pen, she was shoved hard to the ground.
"Unwanted nuisance."
"Alien-speaking freak."
"…."
Laughter erupted.
Boys and girls alike swarmed out of the classroom, leaving her behind.
Her notebook lay open on the floor before her.
And in that instant, Shouko finally understood why her mother could eat bitter melon without so much as a twitch.
Because compared to the bitterness of life, bitter melon was nothing at all.
"Mama… Ia orry. Mama, Ia so orry…"
Clutching the notebook to her chest, Shouko repeated those words over and over.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping into her mouth, making her hopeless sobs taste even more bitter.
How terrifying it was—that on an ordinary afternoon, during an ordinary cleaning session, a child who didn't even know how to write "unwanted" in kanji could release such pure, venomous malice.
Shouko never told her mother about it.
She only apologized, again and again.
"I-it's… all becaush… of me. B-because of me… Papa lef'. Becaush of me… Yuzu… Yuzuru doesn' have a father. I-it's… all my… faul'…"
The little girl's voice trembled with self-loathing.
If she had known more words, she would have used every vile one in the world to condemn herself.
Even though she had just transferred to a new school, even her classmates somehow knew.
Then what about Mama—working in the same place, day after day?
How much greater cruelty did she endure?
"Had a useless child."
"A woman abandoned by her husband."
"She only works overtime because no one's waiting for her at home."
"…."
Even imagining it made Shouko's chest freeze with despair.
"I-… I'm o-orry, Mama… I-it's… all… my f-fault… I-it's… me…"
Her sobbing grew incoherent, each word choked and broken.
She couldn't breathe.
She wished desperately that she could just die right there.
Then maybe Mama and Yuzuru could finally be free of her—this burden—and build a proper, happy family without her.
Her mother must have thought the same way—that's why she was always so harsh with her.
How much of her mother's suffering was her fault?
The little girl scolded herself endlessly, blaming herself for everything, even things as absurd as the extinction of the dinosaurs.
Yet, beneath the flood of tears, a small, fragile hope clung to her heart: that her mother might comfort her.
Just once.
Even just a single word.
If her mother could say, "It's okay," then Shouko would be willing to throw her life away without regret.
She didn't dare hope for forgiveness.
All she wanted was one careless "It's okay."
But nothing came.
Her mother's tired face stayed expressionless, as cold and rigid as a bitter gourd.
Shouko's tears wouldn't stop.
She could feel her body's warmth draining away with every drop.
Her mother's embrace wasn't warm—it was cold.
"Don't cry, Shouko."
"Don't apologize, Shouko."
Her mother's voice cut through the silence—sharp, commanding, so stern it made even Shouko's tears freeze in fear.
The sobbing stopped instantly, as if her tears themselves were too afraid to disobey.
Shouko looked up through her wet eyes at her mother's steel-like face, so hard and unyielding it felt carved from ice.
"When you apologize, people see it as an admission of guilt.
If you admit you're wrong, then what's to stop them from knocking you down, throwing stones at you?
Cutting your shoes in half? Dumping your schoolbag in the toilet? Wouldn't all of that be 'deserved'?"
Her mother's words grew sharper with every syllable, yet each one etched itself clearly into Shouko's heart.
"If you've made a mistake, then work to fix it. Don't waste your life apologizing."
Before Shouko could even process the words, her mother's voice pressed on.
"I am not a good mother—"
"Tha no rue, Mama—"
Her desperate protest was sliced apart by her mother's voice, firm and merciless.
"I am not a good mother.
I didn't wake up early to make breakfast for you and Yuzuru.
I didn't take you to the park after school. I never sat with you to watch a flower grow.
I didn't even go to your entrance ceremony.
All I do is work overtime, day after day…"
"Mama, No!"
The tears burst out again, burning her cheeks.
When she blamed herself, it hadn't hurt nearly as much.
But hearing her mother blame herself—hearing those words—felt like being stabbed in the chest.
Nishimiya Yaeko didn't stop.
"Everyone told me to send you to a special school.
I knew it would be easier for you there, but I kept you in a normal school.
Even when you were bullied, I didn't intervene—I just told you to transfer again and again.
I made it impossible for you to make a single friend."
"Mama, Sop! Don say!"
"I have done so many cruel things to my daughter, yet I have never once said 'I'm sorry.'"
Her mother's relentless voice finally paused.
"No, Mama—…" Shouko whispered hoarsely.
And then, for the first time, her mother's expression softened.
That icy, frozen face melted into something gentle, like winter thawing into spring.
Ah. Mama's hands—so warm.
Her mother cupped her face, wiping away the tears with those rough hands, hardened by years of work and disinfectant. Warm. Tender.
As Shouko soaked in that rare, long-lost comfort, her mother spoke again.
"If Mama isn't wrong… then neither is Shouko."
Her voice was gentle, like moonlight. Soothing. Safe.
"You've done nothing wrong, Shouko."
"Don't apologize, Shouko."
"Don't cry, Shouko."
The words rang inside her head as though they were carved into her very soul.
Every syllable was so clear, so beautiful.
Mama's embrace was warm—warm enough to make her forget winter altogether.
In that warmth, listening to those gentle words, Nishimiya Shouko finally understood why her mother could eat bitter gourd without even a frown.
It wasn't because bitter gourd was nothing compared to the bitterness in her heart.
It was because, as long as she didn't frown, no one would see that bitterness.
No one would know her suffering.
Those who threw stones at her couldn't see her cry.
Couldn't hear her apologize. And so, they feared her. They stopped throwing stones.
At the Nishimiya family's dinner table—
Her mother still ate bitter gourd as if it were plain rice, face unreadable.
Her older sister still forced herself to eat bitter gourd bravely, slipping fish to Grandma and eggs to her younger sister.
Grandma still couldn't chew bitter gourd, and she didn't seem to like fish much either—always sliding it back to her granddaughters, and even to her daughter.
Her younger sister still stared at her in confusion, not understanding why her big sister "liked" bitter gourd so much.
And Shouko herself—she still didn't like it.
But at least now she knew that wasn't strange.
Mama didn't like it. Grandma didn't. Yuzuru didn't.
No one in the Nishimiya family liked bitter gourd.
It wasn't until she was eleven, after her ninth transfer to a new school, that Shouko finally learned to like it.
That was her last chance.
One more transfer, and she would be sent to a special school. If things went badly, her mother might even lose custody of her.
At Suimon Municipal Elementary, the little girl grew into a little young lady—and learned how to eat bitter gourd.
Bitter gourd stewed with fish became delicious, its bitterness softened by the rich flavor of the broth.
Stir-fried with eggs, she could chew through it in big, determined bites.
Even in salad, she learned to savor its sharp taste.
"Wow, sis, I always thought you ate all that bitter gourd just so I could have the good stuff. But you actually like it? You're becoming just like Mom—you're amazing!"
Her silly little sister's words made Shouko laugh.
She thought about telling Yuzuru the real story—why she came to like bitter gourd—but decided against it.
Let the little brat stay scared of it.
Sometimes it still made her grimace, sometimes it made her eyes water, and sometimes it was bitter enough to make her cry.
But now, she could laugh and enjoy that bitterness for what it was.
Why?
Because of Hojou Kyousuke, the boy who was obsessed with sweets?
No.
Not even Kyousuke could make bitter gourd taste sweet.
If he ever tried to win Sakura over with a bitter gourd dish, he'd probably be thrown out of her house instantly—and maybe break his nose on the door for good measure.
Bitter gourd and papaya might be equals in nutritional value, but Kyousuke was far too smart to try something like that.
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