Little lies are kind. Harmless. I don’t begrudge when someone tells one to me, about me. I’ve said my share: It’s so good to see you. No thanks, I’m not hungry. Of course I remembered!
I’m thinking of the moment when I started to say something this afternoon. And then I stopped. No one was about to be hurt. The question was genuine and she was waiting, patiently.
I’m going to have to say it. And she will not be shocked or hurt or in any way troubled. But I will.
We all keep secrets, most we don’t even know we are keeping. We’ve never thought to reveal that part of ourselves, not out of shame or fear, but more happenstance. We never had the occasion. Never been asked that question.
We tell so many stories about ourselves, we know what happens we say it. When I say I was born in New Orleans, people find that interesting. We will talk about food and heat and hurricanes, even though I remember none of it. When I say I have a degree in writing, people think I’m checking their grammar. I’m not. They think I love fiction; I don’t. I know how the next few minutes is going to go.
After my first son died and I had my second, people would chat in line at the check-out or in the doctor’s office. “Do you have others?” “Is he your only?”
The first time, I fumbled. I didn’t expect it, didn’t realize that was a question people asked when they saw other people with babies. I said no, I had another; he died. I didn’t know it was a secret. I knew it would be troublesome. I was pretty sure that one of us would cry. Probably me.
Brutally honest. One of us is about to get hurt. I don’t know how to stop it. You are going to have to forgive me if it’s you.
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