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The Truth About Lying
“No. You were trying to make yourself feel better because you moved away and barely called her for the last five years of her life.”
Henry looked down.
“And I stood there,” Claire said, “listening to you rewrite my childhood in public, and I realized that’s what you do. You make uncomfortable truths disappear. At work. At home. Everywhere.”
Dostoevsky jumped onto Henry’s lap and began to purr. He didn’t move.
“You’re right,” he said.
Claire blinked.
“What?”
“You’re right. I lied at the funeral. I lied about Mom. I lied about why I stayed away. I told myself you were judgmental because it was easier than admitting you were the only person who wouldn’t let me get away with it.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I made you sit through that eulogy. I’m sorry I left you alone with the truth because I couldn’t stand to look at it.”
“Fuck you, Henry.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to apologize and make it clean.”
“I know that too.”
“You don’t get to discover honesty at forty-seven and pretend it cancels everything.”
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