The bedtime story I remember best was one my father made up himself, about a small river fish called Mai who wanted to see the sea. I grew up in a village in the Mekong Delta in Vietnam, where rivers are everywhere, so the story felt very real to me.
My father was a boat mechanic and he didn't read books much, but every night he'd lie next to my sister and me under the mosquito net and continue the story. Mai would swim further down the river each night. One night she'd meet a grumpy old catfish who refused to help her, another night she'd hide from fishermen's nets, and once she got lost in a floating market and was nearly sold. My father always stopped at the most exciting moment, which drove us crazy, and we'd beg for one more minute. He told it for what felt like months, although I think the story must have gone on for maybe half a year.
I remember it for a few reasons. Firstly, it was our story, completely unique to our family. My sister and I could even suggest what happened next, and sometimes he'd include our ideas, so we felt like co-authors. Secondly, it was full of the places we knew, like our own market and the bridge near our house, so the river outside felt magical. But mainly I remember it because of the ending. When Mai finally reached the sea, she realised she missed home and swam all the way back. I didn't understand it then, but now that I'm working as an accountant in Singapore, far from the delta, that ending makes a lot more sense.