Bread.

My first memory is sharing bread with my grandfather. In my head, he was sitting in front of me, in the place I have since then considered my grandmother's house, putting the bread on the bowl with olive oil and then covering it with sugar. I was coppying him and eating the same way. I'm not sure if it really happened, since I wasn't even three years old at the time-- he died a few months before my birthday. But I liked the memory of comfort, family and love, so I guess I kept it.

For years, from how my mother spoke of him, I assumed my grandfather was a caring family man-- and my memory confirmed it. However, two years ago my grandmother told me how he used to beat her, and then asked me not to mention it to my mother because she had never wanted to talk about it. And so I realised I'm not the only one using memories to lie to myself.