My mom has intensively photographed my childhood. I don't know if it's the passion for photography or the urge to show my growth to my father, who was working abroad for most of the year, but having a very short memory those pictures are the only visual thing that reminds me of my childhood. Those pictures are like windows into my past, preserving moments that would have otherwise slipped away.

Every time I go back home, I find myself going through these snapshots, each telling a story and sparking new memories. It's like revisiting an old friend, each picture greeting me with familiarity yet revealing something new every time.

Amongst the pile of memories, I can find certain patterns. Like the ones with those huge, colorful birthday cakes, my mom used to bake from scratch. Each year she would decorate those cakes, covered with candles and sprinkles. This was a symbol of her love and devotion.

But there's another recurring theme, one that never fails to bring a smile to my face. In those early years when I was too young to stand on my own, there are pictures of me being held up by someone else. Whether it was a grandparent or an aunt, their hands were always there, in the frame, supporting me when I tried to stand on my feet.

Looking back, I can't help but be amazed at the effort they must have put in to capture those moments. The way they angled the camera just right, trying to focus on me while keeping their hands hidden from view. It's a testament to the love and care that surrounded me in those early formative years.

In those pictures, I see not just the story of my childhood, but the story of the people who helped shape it. Each image is a snapshot of love, each frame a testament to the bonds that held us together. As I continue to flip through the pages of my past, I am grateful for the memories captured in those photographs, a timeless reminder of where I come from and the people who made me who I am today.