She took one look at me and she knew I was lying, and she knew I knew she knew it.
She gazed upon me with her ancient eyes; eyes that bore a hole right through my forehead and into my brain. And that toothless smile, with her sardonic grin, let me know that I wasn’t getting away with anything.
She didn’t have to utter a word. She saw through my denial. Her scrutiny of me was intense and I was guilty. I had to confess to this woman who was wise to me.
Shaking and on the verge of tears, I said, “I’m sorry, Grandma. I should have told you the truth. I should never have lied to you. I’m so sorry.”
She reached out with her gnarly fingers and placed them on my cheeks. “I know, child,” she said, “but you must learn to always be truthful.”
“Yes, Grandma,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
She looked at me and this time her eyes were kind and her smile was warm. “I know, and I forgive you, because you are my grandchild and I know you will learn from your mistakes. And because I love you.”
“And I love you, too, Grandma,” I said.
Written for Roger Shipp’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Photo credit: Pixabay.com.