A Memory A Memory In the hazy corridors of memory, there lingers a moment from my childhood, a fragile age of four. It was a time of innocence, of tender steps into the world, where the simplest of interactions could shape the contours of a young heart. I remember the sun-dappled yard, where laughter danced like butterflies, and the promise of adventure beckoned from every corner. My cousin, a beacon of playfulness and generosity, offered me her trike, a shining chariot of freedom. Excitement bubbled within me as I eagerly accepted her offer, my eyes wide with anticipation. But fate, it seemed, had a different script in mind. As I skipped towards the promised trike, my joy was abruptly halted by a voice, sharp and cutting. It belonged to my cousin's step-father, a man whose disapproving gaze could pierce the thickest veil of childhood bliss. "No," he said firmly, "you can't borrow it. You break everything you touch." In that moment, the world seemed to still