Growing up, my family has always been distant from my paternal grandparents. As I grew older, I was more heavily supported by my mother’s family, like a knight with a foot in one stirrup. Unlike my maternal grandparents, we seldom called or visited my father’s side of the family. I believe this was caused by some quarrel between my mom and my dad’s side of the family, before my brother and I were born. As I sit here in front of my own children, a cup of chocolate warming my hands, my cable-knit sweater enveloping me like a cloud, I feel as ready as I ever could be to tell the story of how that rift got there. How I got a scar on my heart.

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In Christmas 2020, my family and I - little I - finally flew to visit my ailing grandparents in Shanghai. A quarantine period was required of us. Fourteen days have never felt so long. The mist on our hotel room window merely reminded us of what we were missing outside and invited us to speculate about it, as we'd been away from Shanghai for so long. No matter how cold it was outside, our desire to go leave was never stronger. All we had was each other, to comfort and reassure. Our words of comfort could only go so far; instead, we focused on appreciating the smallest things. It reached a point where we children were yelling down at the pedestrians, ambling along like ants on the street outside.

But it was all worth it the second we stepped out. A bracing new breeze brushed against our faces. We relished the smell of fresh-cut grass, and the only smell I'd call a "city smell" - freshly laid asphalt. The sting of the hailstones and wind, the whirling of a few stragglers - brown leaves still left from autumn, that is - in the wind, trapped between the remorseless high granite faces of the city skyscrapers. A few leftover trees continued to sprout from their fragile beds by either side of a Xintiandi boulevard. Upside-down red Chinese signs were encrusted in every doorway, spandrel, and ghostly window as if to gift-wrap the city for us - and remind us to treasure our memories of it, this time. Soon, we were reunited with my maternal grandparents for the first time in years.

As we swept through the shiny black wooden front door into their townhouse, my first sensation was that of crunching my snowy boots into a wicker nook or cranny and slipping on soft white cotton slippers. They were brand new - bought just for our visit as if my grandparents had few visitors. As for my relatives, they first stood in a polite semicircle, ringing the entrance hall, wrapped in cashmere coats and scarves, which made them look like a buffet of inviting, rounded Christmas puddings and cakes - or, with arms outstretched, like bears. Their arms were either held wide open or clasped flatly in front of them. I felt like a royal guest, but there seemed to be a certain something missing emotionally after such a long time away.

Soon, though, my doubts were dispelled. With a nimble step forward, the father's-side matriarch ushered us into the living room. Everything looked exactly the same as how we left it a year ago - had it been rearranged, I wondered, or merely left very alone? My grandfather reached into a cardboard box and pulled out four juice boxes, one for every one of us. We spent the rest of the day laughing and sharing everything that happened, in front of the crackling old fireplace. It swallowed plenty of logs that evening.

Every day rolled into the next, as carefree as one could imagine. We were shown around the house. We cooed over its delicate sepia-toned photographs. We watched the steam rise from our bottomless pots of chocolate and coffee, highlighting the sunlight through French windows. And we had many deep conversations. One afternoon, as I finished the last of my Christmas Yule log, I turned to my grandparents, suddenly remembering something. We were going to visit our paternal grandparents the next day. I couldn’t fall asleep that night, afraid of what is to come.

It was time. I got in the car, plugged in my earbuds, and began to vibe to the music, in the hopes of getting into a better mood. It had been almost two years since we last visited my dad’s parents. That visit sure did not end well. I remember driving to a restaurant, near to their house, for dinner. During the short ten-minute drive, my grandma repeated the same questions over and over again. My brother Sam and I couldn’t help but giggle silently in the back of the seven-seater car. According to him, she asked us for our ages a total of thirteen times. That’s insane, thirteen times in the span of ten minutes. Hopefully, this visit would be different, and an improvement from the last. Not that I don't understand the virtue of patience.

The car pulled into their condo. As soon as I got out of the car, my dad rushed towards me and handed me a bag, saying, “Give this to your grandparents, say it’s a gift from you.” Without even considering it, I pushed him away, and quickly stuffed my hands into my pocket, “No, ask Sam. I’m freezing, don’t want to take my hands out.” He let out a small sigh and turned to my brother. As he was stuffing the bag into my brother's thrust-out, skinny arms, to be cradled, my brother, with his eyebrows raised in his characteristically nervous manner, blurted out, “You’re their son. Why can’t you do it yourself?” Before my dad had a chance to argue with him, my mom rolled her eyes and marched off.

Pressing the intercom, hearing their voices, brought back all our memories, in an intimidating rush to the head. We stalked, with short, sharp footsteps, up the knotty, gnarly, splintery old wooden staircase. I could hear their “welcoming” voices echoing down. Not that these voices were a facade - not at all. I really couldn't wait for that welcome. We stepped with one jerky motion up onto the fourth floor. We stood outside a door, with its long, deeply cut formal patterns in dark wood. It projected elegance, maturity, and perhaps even authority. I instinctively held on to mom’s puffy jacket and made the “oh no, we’re going to die” eyes. I didn't want to betray fear or anticipation, despite the dark rings around my eyes, and the door's long shadow as it opened. I muttered underneath my breath. “It’s okay. Just an hour, not the end of the world.”

“Hello! It’s been such a long time since we last saw each other!” My grandpa cheered, with a big smile across his face. I was the first to step into their house, my face flushed in the light of the entrance hall. Their house was a lot colder and smaller. It was messy, and while all the furniture was neat, and all there, the place somehow didn’t have a homey touch. We sat around their round tables. My tired eyes roved around the room. With impressive mathematical skills, I carefully calculated whether sitting on a puffy armchair against the wall would be far enough from the table to avoid unwanted interrogation, yet close enough to be allowed. My ears pricked up as a radio in a corner began to play smooth jazz. My body turned towards the sound, hoping I could drown any conversational requirements in its wash as well. They sat us down and asked us if we wanted anything to eat. The only things set out on the table were boxes of milk and a bunch of bananas. My grandpa was a rather short man; I couldn’t help but find it entertaining how he had to dive over the table and go on his tippy toes. He slid a box of milk across the table, towards me, then my brother, and mom. Despite its friendly coloring, I eyed the carton suspiciously, as if it was a piece of gum stuck onto the sole of my shoe. Unfortunately, he caught that little glance of mine, and questioned, “Why aren’t you drinking the milk? You too Samuel, drink up.” My brother must’ve felt pressurized; he took a deep breath, tore the plastic straw off the box, and poked it into his milk. Even though I knew it was rude, I couldn’t drink it. I’m lactose intolerant. How was I going to explain it to him? I doubt he even knew what it meant. I turned to my right, and whispered, “Dad! Lactose, remember?” He either couldn’t figure out what I said or just wanted to ignore me, because he chuckled and walked off, as if I was a seal in the zoo, balancing a ball. Well, this is great.

I looked around the table, hoping to catch my mom’s attention, but instead, made eye contact with my grandma. As soon as she opened her mouth, I felt shivers run down my spine. But that’s not it; she called me by my brother’s Chinese name. I heard a chuckle coming from where my brother was sitting. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t pull myself together. Thankfully, the whole house burst into laughter, otherwise, it would seem rather rude of me.

Ten minutes passed. But these ten minutes warped any sense of time. There was not one minute I could stop laughing at the things my grandma said. She kept repeating her questions, and my immature self just couldn’t conceal and hold my waves of laughter in. I tried everything in my power to refrain from bursting out. From holding in my breath for as long as I could to biting my inner lips and pinching my thighs. They probably thought I had some type of laughing disorder. At the same time, I also knew I had to stop because it’s not only disrespectful, but my dad would also go off on me once we got back into our car. My dad’s not the best when he’s finally, truly, angry. Luckily, I spotted the bananas in the center of the table and reached for one. Stuffing my face with food seemed the only solution.

I rapidly peeled off the banana peel. Then stuffed it into my mouth. Every time I felt like laughing, I would force myself to take a bite. Just like that, the first half of the banana disappeared. The peel sat on my plate like a big yellow grin, looking faintly ridiculous against the heavy, dark wood of the table. Around me, the adults' conversation blended into a faintly humourous buzz, like a swarm of bees in a cartoon.

The next quarter of the banana was not as easy. However, this was that moment. When I realized how disrespectful I was as a granddaughter. I was laughing at my grandma, who was seriously affected by Alzheimer’s. Why am I laughing? Does this make me a horrible person? This could be the last time you see her, do you really want this to be your last memory? At that moment, I couldn't stop tears from flowing. I bowed my head.

The last quarter of the banana. I couldn’t finish it. There was a tight feeling across my chest. It was like I couldn’t breathe. All the emotions were too raw and new. As a child, you really do feel entirely new emotions - unrecognizable ones, mixed together, yet flowing remorselessly downwards, like a block of paints left in the rain. I felt hollow inside, with pain flowing through my bloodstream. I knew it was too late to make it up to her. The helplessness and regrets. My inner voice was accusatory, though it was entirely my own voice. You had one chance, and you messed it up. I stuffed the last bit of banana into my face and shoved it down my throat.

It was time for us to head back. As I exited the front door, I took one last look at my grandma. Let out a sigh of disbelief and sorrow, then walked down the stairs. The car ride back wasn’t easy. I plugged in my earbuds and began playing the music. But this time it was different. Instead of trying to keep my fear and worries away, I was reflecting on and trying to comprehend everything that has happened. Arriving back at my maternal grandparent’s house, I rushed to them and gave them each a hug. Around this age, we all experience these types of issues. Learning to prioritize better right now, to avoid future regrets was the most valuable lesson I learned after the visit. I don’t know how long I have with them, but I want to embrace every moment to the fullest.

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This is the story of how that scar got there. It’s not a physical scar, but an emotional one. One that battles warfare from the past. One that holds sentimental value to me. One that taught me lessons that I will forever cherish. During this Chinese New Year break, please go and spend time with your family and loved ones. Under the circumstances we are in, you never know what will happen.