One day in the Spring of 2019, I found my mother sleepy and bored in her chair. To cheer her up, I turned off the television, took out a notebook and a pen, sat down across from her, and asked her to tell me about her life. We chatted for two hours every afternoon for three months. Her sweet, crystalline voice resounded as she narrated her memories. Her eyes sparkled, her face lit up, and her body straightened as if she wanted to stand up and dance. My mother relived her youth and the beautiful years with my father, relishing the memories of their strong love. My dad had often said he loved his wife more than his children. My pen detailed on the paper everything she said. So many anecdotes I had heard and collected many times before, but now new ones filled the empty lines of my old diary. The accuracy and consistency of her accounts stood firm as rocks because my mother’s judgment remained intact until the end of her life.