The Good Egg

Trust should be earned, not granted without evidence, not extended without proof of reliability.

There is a taste to this memory, and a texture, so vivid that to call it false would be to put at risk every memory I’ve ever had. To call it untrue would be to call my life nothing more than fiction, and I will not be a lie—I will not swallow lies. So, when the detective asks me why I’m acting defensive, insinuating deceit, I nearly throw him out, but what would that look like? So, instead, I play host.

“Would you like a cup of coffee, Detective?”

“No, thank you. Let’s talk about the bird and the…what was it again?”

“Snake,” I say.

I tell him how my mother never forgave me, called me rotten, and sent me to live with Grandpa Joe. He was meant to be the father figure I’d been lacking, to mold me into a man as if I were a piece of warm clay, and through his actions, I suppose he did mold me. He taught me what the world wanted of men: to be volatile, cruel, and prideful keepers who value money above all else.

“Luckily, I’m a poor student,” I tell the detective. “Not that I don’t enjoy the fin…