Chapter 2 -The Things We Remember Differently

I have always trusted my memories.

Not because I believe they are perfect, but because they are mine. They are the only places I can return to without asking for directions.

At least, that's what I used to think.

My younger sister disagrees with me about almost everything that happened when we were children. According to her, I was troublesome, stubborn and unnecessarily dramatic. According to me, I was simply misunderstood.

We have never reached an agreement.

A few months ago, we were sitting in the living room when she brought up something that happened years ago. I can't remember what started the conversation, but I remember laughing before she had even finished speaking.

"You remember when you cried because Mummy refused to buy you that toy?"

I looked at her.

"I didn't cry."

"You did."

"I was a child. I probably had something in my eye."

She laughed.

"Azriel, you cried."

I shook my head and returned my attention to my phone.

The strange thing about having siblings is that they sometimes carry versions of you that you have completely forgotten. They remember the things you said, the things you did, and the embarrassing moments you would rather leave buried.

And sometimes, they remember things differently.

I remember that particular afternoon quite well, or at least I think I do.

It was a Saturday. The house was unusually busy, and everyone seemed to be doing something. My mother was in the kitchen, my father had gone out, and my sister was following me around, asking questions I had no interest in answering.

I remember wanting to be left alone.

I also remember eventually giving her the toy I had been playing with.

She says I took it from her first.

I suppose there is no way of knowing anymore.

Our childhood was not particularly extraordinary. We had our arguments, family gatherings, unexpected visitors and the usual competition between siblings over things that hardly mattered.

There were days when the house was so loud that I wished everyone would be quiet. Then there were evenings when everyone went to bed, and I found myself sitting alone, wishing someone would come downstairs and keep me company.

I never thought much about that contradiction.

Children don't always have the language to explain what they feel. Sometimes they just become quiet. Sometimes they become difficult. Sometimes they make jokes because they don't know what else to do with a feeling they cannot name.

I think I did a little of everything.

My sister once told me that I was the funniest person in the house when I wanted to be. She also said I could go from laughing at something to becoming unusually quiet without warning.

I asked her if she was describing me or someone she had seen in a film.

She told me to stop being annoying.

That was probably fair.

Growing up, I had people around me. I had a family that cared, friends who made me laugh and memories that I still find myself returning to.

I don't want to pretend otherwise.

But there were moments when I felt as though I was watching my own life from somewhere slightly outside it.

I could be in the middle of a conversation, laughing with everyone else, and suddenly become interested in something nobody else had noticed. The sound of rain against the window. The way my mother called someone's name from the kitchen. My father's footsteps as he walked through the house.

Small things.

I liked collecting them.

I still do.

Perhaps that's why I remember certain afternoons more clearly than important events. I can forget what someone wore to a family occasion, but remember the exact sound of their laughter.

Or perhaps I only remember what I want to.

I have never been particularly good at separating what happened from what I felt happened.

And maybe that's where the trouble begins.

A memory is not always a recording. Sometimes it is a story we keep telling ourselves until we forget which parts we added.

My sister still insists I cried over that toy.

I still insist I didn't.

Neither of us has any intention of apologising.

But sometimes, when I think about those childhood years, I wonder how many other things I remember differently from the people who were there.

How many conversations did I misunderstand?

How many silences did I mistake for disappointment?

And how many moments did I turn into something bigger simply because I didn't know what to do with them?

I don't have answers to those questions.

For now, I suppose I'll have to live with my memories.

Even the ones that might not be entirely mine.