Lala sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, her cheeks puffed out and her lips puckered in a dramatic pout. In front of her was a bowl full of beautifully sliced oranges, their bright, juicy segments gleaming in the morning sun. But no matter how fresh they looked, Lala wasn’t interested.
“Mom,” she sighed with exasperation, “do I have to eat these? I just don’t like oranges!”
Her mother, busy tidying up the kitchen after breakfast, turned to look at her daughter and smiled gently. “Sweetheart, oranges are very good for you. They’re full of vitamin C, and they help keep you from getting sick.”
Lala shook her head stubbornly. “I don’t care. They’re too sour, and I don’t like the little stringy things inside. I want guava! Guava juice is my favorite!”
Mom chuckled softly. She knew her little girl could be picky sometimes, but she also loved how honest and expressive Lala was. “Guava juice, huh?” she said, walking over and crouching down to Lala’s level. “You know, the guava trees are ready this week. Why don’t we go to the orchard and harvest some guavas together?”
Lala’s eyes lit up instantly. “Really?! We can go now? I’ll help you! I’ll carry the basket!”
Mom smiled and nodded. “Let’s get our hats and head to the orchard before it gets too hot.”
The sun was climbing in the sky as Lala and her mother made their way to the back of the farm, where rows of guava trees stood tall and green. The trees were full of ripe, round guavas, their pale green skin glowing under the sunlight. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves, bringing with it the sweet scent of ripening fruit.
Lala ran ahead, holding her straw hat with one hand and her little wicker basket with the other. “Mom, look! This one’s big! And here’s another one hiding under the leaves!”
She reached up on her tiptoes, trying to pick the fruit, but it was just a little too high. Mom came over and lifted her gently, letting Lala pluck the guava and place it proudly into her basket.
Together, they harvested for nearly an hour, filling their baskets with the juiciest, ripest guavas they could find. Lala giggled every time she spotted a particularly plump one, and Mom told her stories about how her grandmother used to make guava jam when she was a little girl.
By the time they headed back to the house, their arms were full and their hearts were light.
In the kitchen, Lala helped wash the guavas carefully, humming her favorite song as she placed them in a large bowl. Mom sliced them open, revealing their soft pink flesh speckled with tiny seeds.
“Do you want to help me make the juice?” Mom asked.
“Yes, yes!” Lala exclaimed excitedly, hopping up onto the stool.
Mom showed her how to blend the guava flesh with a bit of water and strain it through a cloth to remove the seeds. The thick, pink juice poured into the pitcher like a soft waterfall.
“Should we add a little honey?” Mom asked.
“Yes, and maybe a pinch of salt!” Lala said, remembering how her grandmother did it once. “That makes it super yummy!”
They stirred the juice, poured it over ice, and sat down at the table with two tall glasses. Lala took a long sip, and her eyes sparkled with delight.
“Mmmm! This is the best juice ever!” she declared. “Way better than oranges.”
Mom laughed. “I’m glad you like it. And you helped make it, so it tastes even better.”
That afternoon, Lala took the extra juice to her neighbors. She knocked on the door of Mr. Bopha, the retired teacher who loved fruit almost as much as he loved books.
“I helped Mom make guava juice!” she said proudly, holding out a bottle. “Would you like some?”
Mr. Bopha’s eyes twinkled. “Why, thank you, young lady. I haven’t had homemade guava juice in years!”
He poured himself a glass right away and took a sip. “Delicious! You have a talent for this, Lala.”
Lala beamed with pride.
Later that evening, as the sun set and the sky turned shades of gold and purple, Lala sat on the porch with Mom, sipping the last of the juice. The cicadas were beginning to sing, and the warm air felt calm and peaceful.
“Thank you for listening to me, Mom,” Lala said quietly. “I really didn’t like those oranges, but I love that you helped me make guava juice instead.”
Mom pulled her daughter close and kissed her forehead. “Of course, darling. It’s okay to not like some things. What matters is that you try new things and help make good choices.”
Lala leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Next time, can we try making guava ice cream?”
Mom laughed. “That sounds like a fun project. We’ll need to do some research.”
From that day on, guava juice became a little tradition in their home. Each time the guava trees were ripe, Lala would head out with her basket, picking the fruits herself and helping Mom prepare the juice. She even came up with fun names for each batch—like “Lala’s Sunshine Sipper” or “Pink Power Juice.”
And though she still didn’t care for oranges, she learned to respect that others did. One morning, when her cousin Bon came over and asked for orange juice, Lala didn’t frown or complain.
Instead, she poured him a glass and said cheerfully, “You like orange juice. I like guava. But we both love juice!”
As the seasons passed, Lala’s love for guavas grew deeper. She started a little garden of her own with baby guava trees, dreaming that one day, she’d make enough juice to share with everyone in the village.
Her story even made it into the local newspaper: “Little Farmer Lala and Her Love for Guava Juice.”
It all started because one little girl didn’t like oranges—and dared to ask for something different.
And in doing so, she discovered not just her favorite drink, but a sweet bond with her mom, a new skill, and a passion for sharing what she loved with others.
