The story was handed down in the family. And like any story that is told and retold, it may be true. And the truth is ornament or wishful thinking. Because of its blurry edges, the truth may also be half-baked, or it may be a lie. But in the moment of telling it, it becomes the truth. Above all if the person listening is an eight-yeard-old girl. This was the story that my parents told me. The one that I tucked away in my memory, something as fragile as the truth. Because now I either don't recognize its limits or I don't want to recognize them.