A few days ago, during a casual meal, I suddenly spoke in dialect. Dad said he felt a strong sense of familiarity when he heard the local accent while working in Beijing. I had never heard that Dad had worked in Beijing.
Dad didn't seem too keen to talk about his experiences in Beijing, but Mom kept sharing her surprise when Dad returned from Beijing.
Perhaps this experience wasn't a good memory for Dad; after all, if given a choice, no one would want to work far away just a month after getting married.
This was something I had never heard before, and I even doubted whether I had crossed into another timeline.
I know too little about my parents.
To what extent is our understanding of others constructed by the stories they choose to tell?
After discovering those "silent blank pages," do we still maintain a consistent definition of truly knowing someone?
How should we even tell our own stories?
I recalled an example from narrative ethics: suppose a person returns lost money not because it is the rule, but because "returning lost money" is part of their self-identity story, and this action maintains the integrity and consistency of their self-narrative.
The self is narrative
A person is never a fixed substance but rather an unfolding story, identity, experiences, and future expectations: when asked, "Who am I?" we are actually trying to tell a coherent and complete narrative about ourselves.