The Exact Moment I Stopped Lying

I was 17 years old and sort of a mess. It would be another five or six years before I matured enough to start making good decisions and exhibit anything resembling consistent character.

One evening, I came home way too late. My mother, who obviously had been worried about me and couldn't sleep, met me at the top of the stairs.

Just 5' 2", my mom was taller than me on this occasion, since by standing in the middle of the landing, she caused me to stop a couple of steps from the top.

"Have you been smoking?" she asked me.

I had. "No, Mom," I lied.

"Have you been drinking?"

I had. "No, Mom," I lied.

She looked at me for a couple of seconds. She wasn't mad. She was disappointed. I instantly felt horrible.

"Okay," she said. "Go to bed."

Her quiet and genuine reaction, so very restrained, cut me to the core. To this day, it makes me feel ashamed.

Later that year, I probably told a few more lies, but far less blatant ones. It wasn't long before I realized that deceit made me feel miserable and I abandoned that behavior.

If my mom had yelled at me or called me names or grounded me, it probably would not have been nearly as effective. I certainly wouldn't have remembered that evening for the rest of my life.