She invited me to join her on a visit to her family home on the tip of northern Japan. Her mother had passed away decades ago, leaving a lasting impact on the family. Her father, a man she deeply respected, and her siblings were gathering there—a rare occasion for them all to be together, the first time in five years.

The long weekend kicked off at their favorite restaurant, which they were excited to introduce me to. The menu was a full-blown tofu parade; each item, from appetizers to desserts, proudly and expertly showcased its versatility. As a barely seasoned gourmand at the time, I was terrified of embarrassing myself in the face of their hospitality. Seven courses awaited us. Except for one challenging dish, my fears gradually dissolved into a delightful dining experience, proving that anything, even tofu, tastes yummy when fried with salt or coated in sugar.

The most anticipated dish was soon to make its appearance. The family was giddy with anticipation. Their vivid descriptions of the dish failed to prepare me for what was to come. You see, it’s not the extremes in taste that unsettle me; I loved French black cheese—as in the cheese was literally black, midnight black, and with an aroma its appearance promised. It’s the gooiest textures that are my Achilles’ heel.

The table hushed. I turned to see the senior serving professional, immaculately dressed, adeptly bringing an eight-inch square, four-inch thick open box to the center of the table, one and a half inches of it filled with creamed tofu. Her dad took charge, carefully gathering the tofu skin that had formed over the cream. I was told the family had fought over who would get to eat it this time; they decided I must. A culinary nightmare was unfolding before me. I deployed every trick in my book of politeness, urging her father to offer the skin to someone who would appreciate the experience far more than this barbarian. But he had more tricks up his sleeve than I did. The blob of tofu skin was placed before me. I felt the covert glances from every corner of the table as they watched to see how I would manage it. Digging deep for courage and summoning all the grit I had, I swallowed it down like a long-necked bird. I paused for the table’s approval while suppressing a violent gag reflex. As the family returned to their plates, I chugged a full glass of water. The taste was fine; the texture, however, was nightmare fuel.

That meal was also when I discovered matcha-flavored salt—a revelation that was both hard to find and absolutely delicious. Later in the trip, her dad impressed me once again. We visited a sushi restaurant featuring a carousel, or a train track if you will, that wound throughout the establishment, bearing small plates of sushi. You take a plate from the carousel, place it on your table, eat, and then stack the empty plates. Each plate is color-coded according to price, and sushi cashiers tally the bill by rapidly counting and correlating the colors. On a few occasions, her father placed an empty plate back on the carousel upside down. I had never seen this type of behavior before; I was thoroughly confused, but knew my curiosity was subject to discretion and timing. At which time I was told it’s a sign to the chef the sushi was sub-standard or stale, and the customer was declaring their refusal to pay for it. A silent protest demanding the chef do better.

A wonderful time was had by all. Then it was off to the airport for our goodbyes. In such a small town, the family was allowed right onto the tarmac and up the loading steps. Realistically, she and her dad wouldn’t see each other for a few years. And yet, as the door to the plane closed, not one “I love you” was exchanged. This was incomprehensible to someone like me, who takes pride in ensuring that friends, enemies, lovers, and family are always up-to-date on my feelings for them. Death will never catch me regretting not expressing my emotions.

Once the plane taxied far enough out of sight of her family, she welled up, not turning to me but rather staying in her private space, letting a torrent of tears flow. These were the tears of a daughter who knew with absolute certainty how much she was loved and how much she loved her father in return, all expressed without a single word. This was my first hint that I had much to learn.

Another family graciously welcomed me into their home. It was a loving home with several grown children, and grandchildren would follow in the years to come. Many experiences over several years with this family melted my scarred heart by showing me what a happy and healthy family could be. So it was a great shock to me the night I learned from the mother that in the decades they had been together, her husband had said “I love you” just once, and she didn’t expect to hear it again until his deathbed. As I had been accepted into the family, I was allowed to press her. Surely this behavior bothered her. I tried a couple of rounds to uncover the real truth. It worked; I got the truth, not what I expected, nor how. Her body language became impassioned. She looked directly into my eyes, which meant the topic was about to be closed, and declared with a confidence that I still feel today, “If he started telling me he loved me (like a Westerner), it would ruin everything!!!”

I believed her then, and I believe her to this day. I think I understand why, but every time I try to articulate this unspoken understanding, it just circles back to prove the point: sometimes, words ruin things.

Love is universal; how it’s expressed is not. I’ve cautioned myself never to judge how others express love. While these two families’ ways of showing affection are not unusual, like everything in Japan, each family chooses its own unique form.

This week’s photograph illustrates why I personally believe that having children without having grandchildren is a missed opportunity to experience love anew. This grandson may never hear his grandpa say “I love you,” but not for a single moment in the rest of his life will he doubt how much his grandfather loved him, and how deeply he loved his grandpa in return.

And now… know the rest of the story.