I discovered my father was a liar while sitting with my cousin under a large oak tree.
“That way’s north,” I said, pointing to the mossy side of the trunk.
“Ain’t.” He brutally disabused me of the notion, not with facts I could argue but with a compass I could not.
I didn’t forgive my father for days. I felt betrayed, unsure of anything he told me.
Later, as the world became complicated, I understood why.
Now I have kids, I could explain the wars and famine on TV. Instead, I point at the moss, and say “That way’s north.”