I was seven years old, sitting at the large, polished dining table in my grandparents’ house. The table always felt too big for me, its surface reflecting the overhead light in a way that made everything seem more serious than it was. That afternoon, my grandmother, my bà nội, had picked me up from school, and I spent the hours before dinner at the table doing my homework while she cooked in the kitchen. The sound of chopping and the smell of garlic drifted out to me as I worked through my assignments.

My grandfather, my ông nội, was in the living room, watching his shows from Hong Kong that had been dubbed in Vietnamese. They rented them from a Vietnamese video store, long series that came in what felt like endless stacks of tapes—twenty or thirty at a time. The voices never quite matched the actors’ mouths, the words always just a second off. He watched them casually, glancing up from time to time while reading the newspaper, as if both things could exist side by side without needing his full attention. The sound of dramatic voices and music carried into the dining room, mixing with the quiet rhythm of bà nội cooking.

I didn’t see ông nội until dinner.

Before we ate, bà nội set the table carefully, placing each dish with intention. There was rice, cá kho—caramelized catfish—stir-fried bok choy, and a pot of canh chua with a whole catfish head resting just beneath the surface. The broth was light and clear, dotted with softened tomatoes and thin, flat bamboo shoots. Pieces of pineapple floated near the edges, and the soup carried a faintly sour, savory smell that filled the room.

Ông nội took his usual seat at the head of the table. He was a quiet man, measured in both his movements and his words, someone who rarely expressed emotion in ways I could easily understand. As a child, I watched him carefully, always trying to interpret what he meant without him having to say it.

That night, the fish head in the soup seemed to hold my attention more than anything else. It felt as if it was looking back at me, and I avoided meeting its gaze. I focused on my rice instead, trying to make myself small and unnoticed.

Without warning, ông nội reached into the pot with his chopsticks. He lifted something small and round and placed it into my bowl. When I looked down, I froze. It was a fish eyeball.

At seven, I assumed it was a joke. It had to be. What else could it mean to be given something like that? My stomach tightened, and whatever appetite I had disappeared immediately. He looked at me and said, simply, “It will make you smart.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I did the only thing that felt safe. I told him I was saving it for last, hoping that would delay the moment indefinitely. He didn’t question it. After a while, he stood up from the table and left, as quietly as he had sat down.

Bà nội looked at me then, a small knowing smile on her face. She understood what I had no intention of saying out loud. She told me I was very lucky—that there were only two eyeballs, and ông nội had chosen to give one to me.

At the time, I only felt relief that I wouldn’t have to eat it.

Years later, I understand what I couldn’t then. Ông nội wasn’t teasing me. He wasn’t trying to make me uncomfortable. In the language he knew—quiet, practical, unspoken—he was offering me something valuable, something reserved. It was his way of showing care.

Even now, I still haven’t eaten a fish eyeball. And there’s a part of me that wonders what it might have tasted like, not because of the food itself, but because of what it meant.

They’re not there anymore to make the soup for me, now that I might finally be willing to try it.