My grandma, Christine Liu, showed her love in a lot of ways.
She held my hand really tightly when we took walks around the neighborhood.
She cooked these elaborate chinese meals, never let my plate go empty, and towards the end of her life, she started sending me emails.
I loved these emails.
English was her second language, so I knew she worked really hard on them.
I like to picture her in front of her giant desktop computer, carefully typing out reminders to study hard, to say thank you to my mom, and to find a boyfriend, preferably a nice chinese one.
About a year before she died, my grandma sent me an email that I immediately knew was different.
The subject line was life story.
Dear Anna, I didn't tell you that in the past years I have been right, some of my story and something happening in my life.
I am sending a copy of the writing to you to see if you can understand my English.
This is my first time writing in English and many chinese customs and thinkings will be difficult for you to comprehensively grasp the ideas.
Lots of love, grandma.
I could hear her voice as I read that email and I couldn't stop crying.
My grandma had attached a document and I started scrolling through pages and pages of her memories.
Her first date with my grandpa on a summer day in Taiwan, being imprisoned for her political beliefs, moving to the US as a young mother.
All these things I'd never heard before, that she was choosing now to share with me.
That email was a gift.
My grandma was giving me her story.
A story I could hold onto and a story I could share even after she was gone.
From the New York Times, I'm Anna Martin.