One of my earliest memories is of being teased on my first day of school for speaking with a Dutch accent. I blamed my mother for this humiliation and returned home furious. “It’s three, not tree. Th-ree!” I told her. The strange thing about this memory is that it is probably false. My mother swears it was my brother who did this.
This kind of confusion is common in families. As stories are told and retold, they take on a life of their own. Details fade and change. It becomes easy to swap one child for another, or to confuse a familiar tale with a personal memory. My recollection feels vivid, but the details become blurrier on closer examination: where was my mother standing when I spoke to her? What was she wearing? I couldn’t say.
