The eyes filled to the brim. The tears welled over. They were held back for long. She was preparing yet another ungrateful meal. Bruise on her arm hurt her less than the aching heart. The bruise she knew would heal. But the tear in heart would stay sore. She picked the onion, the golden one. It had a papery yellow-brown skin. But she knew that it held a juicy white flesh beneath. She took the sharpest knife. She wanted the perfect cut. She sliced with the practiced hand. The white flesh bled. Her happy tears mixed with the blood.