I’ve always loved travelling; for as long as Since I can remember, my mom has taken me to wonderful places around the world whenever I’m free. It’s sad to realize that only fragments of the oldest memories remain in my mind, and they’re merely minor details remembered by a child. (Since I had little idea how rare it was to follow the penguins closely that came back from the Southern Ocean Of the birds on Phillip Island, back from their Southern Ocean séjour, all I remember about Phillip Island is the penguin-poop-shaped, white-chocolate-coated gummies that we bought at the souvenir shop.) And so I’ve tried to cherish the beautiful moments and keep them in mind in recent years, but being a teenager means that the mother-daughter relationship becomes tough and hard to deal with. The thing I know is, had she not loved me whole-heartedly, Mom couldn’t have managed to plan and carry out so many trips., had she not loved me whole-heartedly.

The thought lingers as I turn over a faded handwritten receipt from La Bohème restaurant in Arles—buried among the miscellaneous postcards, receipts, maps and tickets of my miscellaneous traveling souvenir collection. Looking at it, I remember years ago when Mom told me that to visit Provence was her lifelong dream. When we finally reached Nice last summer, however, her excitement didn’t shine through like I thought it would. She got through the formalities herself, and took my brother and me wherever we felt like going, taking photos of us bathed in the sunlight that she had been longing for. It’s been dawning on me that Mom sets her own desires aside when we travel from spending half a day checking out music video scenes in Paris, to pausing for a gelato shop with long queues, she never seemed to want anything for herself. But I know she must have had her own wishes, for she searched for so many guides and made detailed notes on her map late into the night.

I know that she was drawn to the tteokbokki and eomuk in Myeongdong, but asked what we wanted instead; I know that she adored tableware, but saved the porcelain museum until our final hours in Nagoya; I know that every time she told us not to be concerned about her and follow our preferences, she was only burying her own cravings. And yet I still let small things ruin my day—getting gloomy just because Mom can’t find an audio guide right away.

Having flipped past photos of Neuschwanstein Castle, a refrigerator magnet of the Great Ocean Road, the first postcard that I’ve ever collected comes into view—I still remember Mom gently taught me how to spell Sydney Opera House in English. And thinking about the fizzy Bundaberg and fluffy pancakes (arranged in a butterfly shape on the plate) in Sydney, the sea breeze at the White Cliffs, the quirky sand sculpture by the Thames, I can still feel happiness, as it turns bittersweet, in the memories, where love wove the fabric of my life. And though there were times in the past when I misunderstood Mom, or failed to see her sacrifices, they are like footprints mildly faded by the waves, as the sea at Antibes embraces a gorgeous sunrise.