I used to think I was a liar.
One night, I sat on the bed, while the children I was nanny-ing snuggled under the quilts. I wove story after story trying to lull them to sleep, weaving words like the braids in the little girls’ hair.
Before she drifted off the littlest one told me, “I like stories made from nothing.”
My stories take a tiny grain of truth and create a giant bean stalk where a small weed would be.
As a teen, that often turned into ways to disguise the truth from my parents.
But maybe it’s what makes me, me.