The  tinkling of broken glass echoes in my ears.

I stand over the broken pieces of my mother's

favorite cookie jar.

One eyes of the ceramic teddy bear

is still intact, piercing me.

My nephew is crying. I hug him tight.

"It's okay, John. But, listen to me, you can't

tell your daddy. Do you understand?"

The sound that I've been dreading--

gravel crunching in the driveway.

My brother is home.

John runs to the door. "Daddy! Daddy!

I got something to tell you!"

I'm doomed.

I freeze, one hand clutching the broom,

the other grabbing at the air.

What am I really afraid of?

He'll notice that the cookie jar was missing

eventually.

What will I say when he asks me?

What will I say if he finds my report card,

or the letters I wrote his best friend

when I was thirteen?

What will he say if I ask him

about the cigarette smoke on his breath?
Children don't lie.

They don't know any better.

Adults do.

I stared at the pieces of bear on the ground

and, for a moment, I imagined our trust

lying on the floor,

shattered beyond repair.

Then,

the front door slams. I jump in action:

Hurry, sweep up the pieces

Quick, throw then into the trashcan.

Faster, hide the trashcan on the back porch.

This is for the best. It's only a white

lie. A small white lie.

John will learn to lie soon.