My grandparents weren't a part of my daily life growing up, which is something I think a lot of first-generation children can relate to. I remember mom always joking that grandma loved me more than she loved her, but I never quite understood what she meant. How could someone I barely know love me so much? It wasn't until 2016, on my last trip to Beijing, that I truly connected with that half of my culture for the first time. I clung to it, reveling in the smell of black vinegar and listening to the flow of Mandarin around me like a familiar song on the radio. I held your tiny hand to help you cross the street as good grandchildren should—and I knew, in that moment, that I had so much yet to learn about you. I was hungry to know more. It pains me to think that this transformation happened so late in life, and that the pandemic took away the few remaining years I had left to cherish the love that you gave me all my life. I hate that I didn't have more time to return that love. Maybe that's just how it always is; even if we had another 20 years, we'd still crave more. There's always more to do, more to say, but at some point we have to accept that what we were able to give was enough. Rest in Peace, Lao lao. 我爱你