I don’t feel guilty for lying. Not anymore than they felt when they told me about the Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy when I was little.
“That’s great, Mom.” I glance out the window next to the desk then stand and walk around the desk to the living room. “Mom, how long ago did Tomas leave?”
“Maybe two hours or so. Why?”
I blow out my fear quietly, so she doesn’t hear. “I just wondered.” My lies are getting weaker.
“He picked up your clothes and we packed up your stuff from the bathroom and he loaded it into his car—did you see that thing? It’s like a plane’s cockpit.” She’s always been like a dog with its bone. Right up to the minute a squirrel skitters by. Then she’s off for a different adventure. Bone forgotten.
She chuckles. “That boy did alright for himself. I’d marry him for the car a
