Describe a happy memory from your childhood

The one that comes to mind straightaway happened when I was about seven, on the narrow street outside my grandparents' house in the countryside. My father had just taken the training wheels off my bike, which felt like a small betrayal at the time, and he spent an entire evening running alongside me, holding the seat and letting go a fraction longer each time without telling me. It was just the two of us out there — my mother was inside cooking, and I remember the smell of rice drifting out through the open window. What actually happened was almost anticlimactic: I wobbled, corrected myself, and suddenly realised he wasn't holding on anymore, and I hadn't fallen. I turned around, half expecting him to be right behind me, and instead he was standing twenty metres back, grinning. It's a fairly ordinary memory, nothing dramatic, but it's stayed with me more clearly than plenty of bigger events since. I think that's because it was the first time I'd done something entirely on my own with someone watching who was proud of it rather than just praising me out of politeness. Whenever I'm learning something difficult now, as an adult, I sometimes think back to that exact feeling — the mixture of fear and momentum right before you realise you can actually do the thing. That's probably why it still makes me happy: it was never really about the bike, it was about that particular kind of trust.