The Baby Who Remembered Murder

My father always said I was a liar.

In preschool, when a plastic truck got stepped on, I said I wasn’t the one who broke it. He told the teacher I was lying.

Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Peterson, came over to borrow a wrench and noticed a dark purple bruise on my father’s calf. When he asked what happened, I said Mom had kicked him. My father laughed it off, claiming he’d just walked into the coffee table, and told Mr. Peterson that I just loved to make things up.

When Grandpa Hank asked if my dad was good to me, I told him the truth: "No, he's not my real dad."