At some point, I realized I barely remembered my childhood. Yet, some vivid scenes remained in my memory, and I decided to share them with my mom. But as I told them, I encountered something unexpected: according to her, none of it happened. She had a completely different fur coat, we re-papered the walls in a different year, and the winter I was born into wasn’t that cold.
But I remember. I remember it differently, yes. But must I discard these scenes from my memory just because they lack documentary accuracy?
This story is about how important memories are, even if the actual color of the wallpaper was different.
