Dalita was a girl on a mission, and that mission was always, always noodles and dumplings. Her mother, bless her soul, had tried every trick in the book. "Dalita, you can't have noodles for breakfast!" she'd say, only to find Dalita with a chopstick in one hand and a rogue dumpling in the other.

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​One morning, the inevitable happened. Dalita was caught, red-handed, with a bowl of instant noodles clutched to her chest like a prized trophy.

​"Dalita Grace!" her mother's voice boomed, "We talked about this. You haven't touched your healthy toast!"

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​Dalita's face crumpled. A single tear, large and theatrical, rolled down her cheek. A sniffle escaped her. The drama was about to begin. She let out a wobbly sob, the kind that could melt a statue's heart.

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​But even in her deepest sorrow, a noodle strand dangled from her lip. Her little hand, trembling with emotion, still managed to guide the chopstick back to her mouth. She sniffled again, another tear joined the first, and she ate the noodle. Her mother sighed, a sound of both exasperation and reluctant admiration.

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​Dalita cried and ate, ate and cried. A single, silent, tearful dumpling disappeared into her mouth as her mother shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. Some battles, she knew, were just not worth fighting. Not when there were noodles involved.