I knew better than to draw on walls. I was, after all, 6. Nonetheless, I held a felt-tipped pen in my hand like a dagger, and slowly dragged it along the wall of our hallway. It felt satisfying to watch the curves of the ink emerge as the pen kissed the white surface. After I had completed my artwork, there were designs lining the entirety of the wall.
A few hours later, when the expected shout from my mother sounded, I was prepared with my alibi. “I’ve been in my room. Adrian must have done it.” My brother, who was 3, was my perfect scapegoat. My parents turned their questioning to him. Satisfied that I had dodged the blame, I skipped off.
I was playing in the garage when my parents approached me. “Adrian is crying, and keeps saying he didn’t draw on the walls.”
“It wasn’t me,” I stuck to my story.
They looked at me with hard, set eyes. I wavered. Had they seen through my airtight explanation? I realized that lying would be more exhausting than it was worth. I wanted to move on and do other things, such as go to the bakery for doughnuts like Mom had promised.
“Yeah, I did it.”
After a full confession, Mom and Dad launched into a tirade. Firstly, I should have known better than to draw on the walls. Secondly, lying about it was unacceptable. Thirdly, blaming it on my brother was really unacceptable.
The punishment to fit the deed: timeout in my room for an hour. And no going with Mom to get doughnuts.
I expected the timeout. But no doughnuts? That one really hurt. I screamed, I pleaded, I cried from within my bedroom. But to no avail. My mom and brother drove away, leaving me in my regret.
When they returned, there was a quiet knock on my door. It was Adrian, holding out a napkin cradling a doughnut. A peace offering and extension of his forgiveness.
That wasn’t the only time I lied to my parents. But that was the last time I ever wrongly blamed my brother.
A few hours later, when the expected shout from my mother sounded, I was prepared with my alibi. “I’ve been in my room. Adrian must have done it.” My brother, who was 3, was my perfect scapegoat. My parents turned their questioning to him. Satisfied that I had dodged the blame, I skipped off.
I was playing in the garage when my parents approached me. “Adrian is crying, and keeps saying he didn’t draw on the walls.”
“It wasn’t me,” I stuck to my story.
They looked at me with hard, set eyes. I wavered. Had they seen through my airtight explanation? I realized that lying would be more exhausting than it was worth. I wanted to move on and do other things, such as go to the bakery for doughnuts like Mom had promised.
“Yeah, I did it.”
After a full confession, Mom and Dad launched into a tirade. Firstly, I should have known better than to draw on the walls. Secondly, lying about it was unacceptable. Thirdly, blaming it on my brother was really unacceptable.
The punishment to fit the deed: timeout in my room for an hour. And no going with Mom to get doughnuts.
I expected the timeout. But no doughnuts? That one really hurt. I screamed, I pleaded, I cried from within my bedroom. But to no avail. My mom and brother drove away, leaving me in my regret.
When they returned, there was a quiet knock on my door. It was Adrian, holding out a napkin cradling a doughnut. A peace offering and extension of his forgiveness.
That wasn’t the only time I lied to my parents. But that was the last time I ever wrongly blamed my brother.
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