Your memories, not mine.

The weirdest thing happened today. A few hours back in fact. My father came into my room and showed me a letter that his father wrote, a day after he found out that his wife was expecting my father. And I have this habit, of writing about almost everything that happens. So as I sat down to write an article about the letter and the story that followed, one which I know only too well, I stopped. Half-way through the article, I stopped. I read what I had written, selected everything and deleted it. I couldn't get myself to write. This is probably the second time that I've got this feeling. The first time I got it, I realy didn't know what it was. This time, it persisted long enough for me to dissect it and identify it.
I couldn't write about my father's mother's story, cause I felt like it wasn't my story to tell. I felt like those weren't my memories, those were his. They belonged to him, and I had no right, to take that away from him. To make them my own. It's a weird feeling and I don't know why I have it. But I got it once before, when I was telling my nani's story, to a close friend of mine, and after I was done, I felt like I'd violated her privacy. Like I'd done somethig wrong. Cause yet again, it wasn't my story to tell, it was hers.
I don't know why I get it, but at times, I can't get myself to answer simple questions, because I feel like, I don't have the right to, they aren't my answers.
And I think it's insanely odd.