“When a Child Learns to Lie”
by Adena M’lynn I didn’t learn to lie from a liar’s academy. I learned to lie from the people who demanded truth— the ones who looked me in the face and said, “Tell me what happened,” then flinched when I actually did. See, the truth I carried wasn’t dressed for guests. It didn’t come in tidy sentences or soft colors. It came in bruised shapes and late night shadows and footsteps that didn’t belong in a child’s room. So when I handed it over— small hands open, voice shaking— they recoiled. “No. That’s not true. Stop lying.” And that’s the moment a child becomes a scientist— experimenting with stories the way other kids try on shoes in the back of Gibson’s store on a Saturday afternoon. Does this one fit? No? Too big? Too scary? Too close to the thing you don’t want to believe? Okay… try another. This one? Too small? Not believable enough? Try again. So I learned quickly, the truth wasn’t what happened. The truth was whatever made adults say, “Okay.” Whatever let them exhale. What...