Inherited Deception

My mother called at 8 PM.

"Where is he?"

The lie came out before I could think—

not stumbling, not hesitant,

just smooth and practiced

like my tongue had been rehearsing this

my whole life without telling me.

"He's at the gym."

I could feel her believing it.

Could feel the lie land

exactly where it needed to land,

could feel my voice

not even wavering,

steady as a person who knew

how to keep a secret.

And I did know.

I'd learned it young—

learned that sometimes love

means choosing who to protect

and who to let down.

Learned that loyalty

tastes like a lie

that fits perfectly.

He was in the bedroom.

She was in the car.

I was on the phone

with my mother's questions

and my borrowed lie,

speaking it like I'd been born

knowing how to say it.

After I hung up,

I sat in the dark

and felt the lie settle

into my bones

like it had always been there.

Like I'd always known

how to do this.