Tell the Truth, by Bryan Houchen

“Is this the house?” she asked.  

“No. Not this one,” I replied. 

It wouldn’t be the next one or the next. What I didn’t know at the time was that my mother already knew the truth; how could I know that she knew? I was six. My brain didn’t twist that way yet. It would be years before I could spot the difference between a question and a trap. 

I had a boat load of freedom at an extremely young age. At six years old, I hadn’t been missed when I ambled out of the house and walked the few blocks to our local grocery store. I was well known there, my mom shopped weekly with my twin brother, sister and me in tow. I guess because there were two of us boys, my parents assumed that we’d look out for each other and stay out of trouble. Pretty much the opposite took place. We learned early to distract and deflect, quietly lurking about, unseen and unnoticed most of the time. The parental alarms only activated when something big went down. Big, like when the store manager calls your mom to inform her that her young son had pinched a bag of party balloons and left without the customary, required payment.  

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I was busted, but it took a strange turn. Instead of confronting me and asking why I had stolen the balloons, my mom allowed me to fabricate a tall tale of denial, and I came up with a whopper. Seems I had attended a birthday party (that no one knew of) and one of the party gifts was this great bag of balloons.  

So, off we went, wandering my neighborhood, up one street and down the next, me not able to recall which house the “party” had been at, and my mom leading us further and further from the truth.  

We never resolved the issue. The last straw was me wrapped around a light pole, refusing to budge another inch, yet unwilling to cop to the deed, just as firmly as my mother was attached to her own lie, her knowledge of my theft.  

I’d be happy to say that I learned right from wrong that day...but I’d be lying.