As a child I told stories. They weren’t the type that would make most parents proud. These were lies. Lies that I often truly believed. Some that still to this day, I am not sure what was the truth.
A Man with Cutters
One such story occurred the night that my brother and I stayed home (I can’t remember if this was the first time or not) by ourselves and I believed that there was a man walking up our driveway with some sort of wire cutters or some sort of tool to break into our house. (As an aside, it is safe to say that the fact that our house was broken into on multiple occasions clearly skewed my mind.)
I remember looking out seeing the man and telling my brother. (We were watching TV. I am sure a scary show was on.) I remember calling an uncle up the street.
He didn’t answer his phone.
Then I called different relatives until I finally reached another uncle. He drove a long way and by the time he arrived my parents had returned.
Fear is the primary reason we lie.
There was the time, I asked my uncle (I believe he was the same one as above) to create a mother’s day card for me.