Running a soup restaurant isn’t the most glamorous thing in the world. Piles and piles of ingredients filled the cupboards and fridge, waiting to be used and served. It also isn’t the most common. Restaurants always specialized in certain cultural cuisines in the area, but we only served one thing: soup. 

My father loved soup growing up. He always told me you could tell what someone was like by their soup order. “Soup is a way of feeling,” he would always say, “You can tell someone how you feel through a bowl of soup.” 

I grew up in the restaurant. Soups from around the world were served almost 12 hours a day, and my father worked relentlessly to make the day’s sale goal. Scents from the American East Coast blended with the scents of East Asian soups. Going around the world via soup wasn’t something I expected to ever do when I was older. But it was my father’s pride and joy. He poured his heart and soul into this restaurant and put every penny back into it. 

“You don’t need new shoes. Đừng lo lắng nhé con? Don’t worry,” He looked at my shoes and hugged me. He didn’t know my toes were aching with pain in the shoes one size too small for me. I nodded and went up to the small apartment we lived in above the restaurant. Freeing my feet, I sat on the floor and rubbed them. Every step to our room was painful, but I pushed myself through the door and fell onto the mattress pad. I laid face down on my pillow and let myself cry. My feet hurt so much, and he didn’t know a single thing. 

I was left alone so often that I found company of the darkness that always engulfed the apartment. It was always the same routine everyday: wake up, school, home, homework before the sun went down, sit in the dark. Ba always told me to never turn on the lights when I was home so we didn’t waste electricity, but I was scared of the dark. The only thing that would soothe me was the classical music CD stuck in our CD player. Day and night I would listen to the repeating notes of Clair de Lune. It would break his heart if I told him I wasn’t happy. He gave up so much for his dream—who was I to wreck that? I was just a child, I couldn’t do that… 

As I grew up, I found my passion for classical music and school became an escape. My fingers would fly across the piano keys, producing the beautiful sounds of comfort. I’d shut my eyes and sit in the music room for what felt like hours after school. The notes floated around the room and showed me what it was like to feel like I was on cloud nine. But all good things must come to an end and everyday my head hung as I sat under the moonlight doing my homework when I couldn’t finish it before the sun went down. 

I hated soup. But here I was, running a restaurant that only served something I hated. He pushed me to the point where I grew to feel bitter at his passion for the restaurant. It was always the restaurant over me. When I was fifteen, my father had sat me down and explained that once he got too old, he wanted me to take over the restaurant. “Con is such a hard worker, like Ba. You can do it. Just cố gắng. You’re made to cook like me.” Just keep going. I would just smile and nod, knowing that what I said wouldn’t matter. My dreams of playing music for the world ran away after that. The last time I ever performed for a crowd was over ten years ago. 

I was in the kitchen that day, awaiting my father’s arrival at the restaurant. I knew exactly what to cook him, after all, soup is a way of feeling. And this was the only way I could tell him how I felt, even if it was twenty years later. He left. He left this restaurant to me and didn’t even ask if that’s what I wanted. Không sao đâu. Không sao đâu. It’s okay. It’s okay. At least he was there when I was a kid, right? I didn’t know anymore. The pot was boiling and the scent of my feelings filled the kitchen, my nose scrunching at the bitter smell. I stared at my reflection in the soup. The musician in me was long gone, and there was the shell of who I was. 

The bell rang as the door swung open and I could hear people happily chattering with him. Hiding behind the kitchen door, I peeked through the circular window to get a glimpse of them. My father was here, walking into the restaurant like he did nothing wrong. In reality, he never really did, but the grudge I held was rooted deep inside my heart. I smoothed my apron and watched him sit down at the corner booth, looking around at the restaurant he once operated. Shoving the kitchen door open, I plastered on a smile and walked toward my father. “Hi Dad,” I greeted, hands fiddling with the tie of my apron.

“Ah! My daughter! How are you, con? You look tired. Don’t stay up too late. Sleep early,” my father began, pointing out the bags under my eyes. I laughed half-heartedly and set a teapot and teacup on the table for him.

“I’m fine, Ba.”

“Work too much not good, con. Just like Ba, work too much.”

“I have to run the restaurant,” I counter, wondering why he was telling me to work less when he knew how much work it took to run the restaurant.

“What is soup of the day?” he asked, “Ba is kidding, con. Everything soup, just like I made it.” I forced another laugh out and folded my hands in front of myself. “Surprise me, con. Whatever soup you want. Ba sẽ đợi.”

Dad will wait. He didn’t need to wait long as I made my way back to the kitchen, spooning the simmering soup into a porcelain bowl before grabbing the matching spoon and heading back out. My dad beamed as he saw me walking toward him but his smile disappeared once I set the bowl in front of him. “Soup is a way of feeling. That’s what you always said.”

“Canh khổ qua? Con…” he was speechless. A dish I had grown up hating, but one that put my all into cooking. He stared at me in disbelief, and I walked away. 

I didn’t need to look at him to see how it tasted.

It tasted exactly how I wanted it to: more bitter than sweet.