“And then you would pretend to be the teacher, and you would take attendance, and your grandpa and I…”
My grandma continued, uneven as she stumbled over the curves and dips of Mandarin. Her attempt to tell the story was well intentioned, but it was clear Mandarin wasn’t the dialect she was most comfortable in. I caught on to bits and pieces — a familiar name, a road name tugging on a faint story I didn’t quite remember — but the rest blurred together like the memories she was describing. I nodded anyway, hesitant to completely reject her attempt, but the slight annoyance of having to pretend to understand already settled in.
This was a common occurrence with my grandma. We would be standing in the silent kitchen after school, or I would be sitting on the couch scrolling on my phone. Then would come a slight silence, a faint pause in the air, and she would start talking softly. When I was in middle school and she first started telling the stories, I leaned in, trying to piece together every sentence. But as school grew busier and my patience thinner, I grew tired of spending time trying to listen to something I couldn’t understand. Yet, almost immediately after tuning out every time, I would feel a quiet sense of guilt settle in. My grandma speaks Hakka, a dialect I was once fluent in as a kid, but eventually grew out of and forgot. That, combined with the fact that she normally lives with my aunt in China, makes it difficult for us to fully understand each other.
The stories she tells stem from when I stayed with my grandparents in a small suburban town in China from ages 1 to 3 while my parents were earning their PhDs in the United States. Now, those two years feel strangely distant, not because they weren’t important, but because they left behind nothing tangible. While my family’s devices are filled with pictures and videos of my younger sister, everything taken from the years I was in China is stored on a disk my parents can’t find, meaning there are no videos to rewatch and no pictures to pull up. When I try to recall those years, I draw a blank, like a chapter in my life has been erased. My grandma becomes the only one who still holds it, leaving me with the sense of obligation to listen, tangled with the restlessness and quiet frustration that floods my mind.
One Saturday morning, I sat in the car with my mom, waiting for the traffic light. Scrolling on my phone, I commented briefly on the fact that my grandma was flying back to China that night, and she nodded, seemingly lost in a thought.
“Your grandma loves you not because you’re my daughter, but because she just loves you,” she said casually.
My finger paused, the quiet thought settling in. As an Instagram story played on my forgotten phone, everything stilled. The more I thought about it, the more something shifted in me. A feeling of part love, part guilt, cut through my mind, a strange weight lifting as her words landed. She then continued, mentioning that while other relatives may see me solely as an extension of my parents, my grandma sees me for me.
The next time I opened the fridge door to an assortment of my favorite fruits, I realized how she shows up in small ways that are often overlooked. Her waking up five minutes before I left for school to fill up my water bottle wasn’t coincidental, and neither was the bowl of pistachios left sitting on my desk the night before. They weren’t big, grand gestures, but she noticed and provided for me in small, unwavering moments.
It reminded me then how sometimes, I find her standing in the kitchen or sitting on her bed, doing nothing in particular and staring off into the distance. She had come up to me once and asked if I wanted anything to eat. When I said there was nothing I wanted, she said — almost sadly — that if we were in China, she would go down to the stores near her apartment and get me all of my favorite foods, but here, there was nowhere she could go. It made me realize how much she truly gave up to be here. She left behind her home, her routine, to take care of us. With this new lens, her stories didn’t feel like interruptions or a waste of time anymore, but rather, gentle offerings, small pieces of my childhood I had neglected.
Life as a high school student means looking forward, keeping up and managing expectations. Every day is consumed with the rush of tests and schoolwork, thinking about college and everything that comes with growing up. Change feels inevitable. So when my grandma questioned why I wouldn’t eat what used to be my favorite foods or would talk about the shy little girl from years ago, a flicker of exasperation would always arise. It felt like she wanted me to stay a version of me that I had already outgrown.
But looking at it now, in a world where everyone is pushing me to mature faster, plan ahead and stay on my toes, she is the person that lets me live at my own pace. While the thought that she still sees me as the small, sensitive kid from 12 years ago used to bring up a wave of irritation, it now feels freeing. My grandma doesn’t measure me by milestones or achievements, but simply remembers me. Her unconditional love doesn’t stem from the possibility of who I could eventually grow to be, but from who I’ve always been.
One afternoon, when she started speaking again, her words uneven and pauses stretching the gaps, I didn’t look back down to my phone. When I didn’t understand something, I asked a question, waiting as she searched for the right words. This time, the work didn’t bother me, and I instead appreciated that she struggled to cross that language barrier to connect with me. In that moment, time slowed, allowing me to sit and connect with a past I no longer personally have access to.
While my sister may have countless photos and videos, I have my grandma’s memories. The years that slip past my fingers, she remembers. So when I’m listening, I’m not losing time — I’m discovering a way to hold on.
