“Do you really not remember anything?”
Miss Anne sat in the rocking chair, creaking back and forth in the lazy afternoon sun. It had become a habit for the sick old lady to ask this question every now and then as she recounted your birth and childhood, fondly reminiscing on the past. You were ready with the usual answer.
“No, Ma, I don’t. The last thing I remember was waking up from that fever and seeing you, right?” You set down the pan, shaking your head with a light grin.
The old lady nods, satisfied, and sighs in the warmth of the sun. “I remember when you were just a baby…” she murmurs, slowly drifting to sleep.
You knew, however, that both of you were lying.
