The Apple That Left a Scar: A Story of Misunderstanding and Assumptions

Some stories stay with you long after they’re told. They linger not because they were dramatic or loud, but because they whisper a truth about human nature. 

This is one such story my mother once shared with me, and it has since changed how I look at family dynamics, misunderstandings, and the delicate thread of assumptions we weave into lifelong grudges.

My mother was pregnant with my brother when this happened. When she visited her sister-in-law’s home, she felt unusually hungry that day, as expectant mothers often do. She asked if she could have something to eat. Her sister-in-law’s daughter, who had recently returned from abroad, eagerly offered to prepare something.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned with a plate. My mother, in her hunger and anticipation, imagined something warm, filling, and comforting. What greeted her instead was an apple—beautifully carved, but just an apple.

She told me that at that moment, she felt like crying. She was carrying a child, battling hunger, and the only offering made to her was an apple, no matter how artfully presented. She quietly ate it, suppressing her disappointment, but the memory stayed like a thorn. Since that day, she told me, she couldn’t shake off the bitterness she felt toward her sister-in-law, whom she believed failed her at a moment of need.

For years, I too nursed the same grudge by extension. After all, I had only seen my aunt and her daughter as sweet people. But if my mother—my anchor—could feel such pain, maybe there was something darker beneath the sweetness? Was it the invisible 'in-law' tag that added an unseen edge to their behavior?

Then one day, my overthinking brain started spinning a different narrative.

I remembered that my aunt’s daughter had, in fact, learned the art of fruit carving when she was abroad. She loved apples—especially for their texture, the way they held shape, and how elegantly they could be transformed into edible art. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn't trying to belittle my mother. Maybe she thought she was offering something special, something visually delightful, perhaps even filling.

That’s when the realization struck me:
How many lifelong grudges are born not from cruelty, but from miscommunication?
Had my mother simply said, "Could I have some rice?"—which was her staple and comfort food—would anyone have denied a pregnant woman? Most probably not.

But neither side voiced their feelings. One side tried to impress with what they thought was the best they had to offer. The other side silently mourned an expectation that was never spoken aloud. And between them grew a gap of misunderstanding that lasted decades.

Since that day, I’ve tried to pause before I assume. 

Because maybe the person I think is ignoring me is actually trying to show love in a language I’m not tuned into.