I still remember the first time that my mom lied to me. 

 

“We are going to pick up your dad’s socks at home. You stay here with your grandma for just a little while. Ok, darling?”

 

I cried hard in my grandma’s arms, eyes with tears staring at my mom. The three-year old me felt her sight hiding.

 

I used to live just one block away from my grandma’s house, but little did I know at that time, it took them three days to pick up that pair of socks. They went to Hong Kong for a trip.

 

I love my grandparents very much. But I don’t really like them. The gap between us stands five generations of 20th century China. As long as we avoid the topics of marriage and feminism, we get along really well. Spending time with them is relaxing and comfortable. When I was little, they were my closest friends. 

 

I went fishing with my grandpa, and watched my grandma play Mahjong. They took me to the park near the neighborhood, and we enjoyed the sunshine leaking through the gray sky. I did the same in those three days. I was just confused why my mom didn’t return from work yet suddenly appeared to pick me up, without that pair of socks in her hand, after the long weekend. 

 

It was after many years when I read the family album when I realized my mom lied. Almost immediately, I recalled that moment of crying in my grandma’s arms. I was surprised to feel how my memory lasts.