here was a time when my mother did not know me. She was neither at fault nor aware. Lying had started by what I thought was necessity, and became second nature. "What time did you get home last night?" she would ask. I thought "three" and said "one." "Who do you have a crush on these days?" my mother would tease, flaunting each syllable with her soprano sigh. I had been dating someone for the past two months, but replied with a careless shrug. "Don't you want some dinner?" she would plead. "I had a late lunch," I yelled over the music that muffled my voice and my stomach.
         
My lies coated me like a glossy veneer over a piece of old furniture. I didn't want her to see my dents. This guise spanned from seventh through half of the eleventh grade. My grades were above average, I made my own money, and I bounced around the house with headphones and a paintbrush. She never questioned the illusion.
         
   Near the close of tenth grade, my English teacher assigned an essay inspired by a picture. That night I dug around in the attic and found two photographs of my mother that I had never seen before. In the first, she wore a loose flannel shirt with the cuffs rolled up. She was sitting on a rock in the Sound with her bare feet poking out of her ripped Levi's. She had her hair swept into a messy bun with unruly wisps of blonde blowing over her rapt expression. I imagined myself on that rock and found the peace in seclusion to be terrifying. I felt the wind brushing my cheeks, the water licking my toes. My thoughts could not be overpowered by the mundane details of high school life. My worries and fears rose high above the matters I spoke openly about.
         
  My mother was not alone in the second photograph. She wore a silk blue blouse as deep as the ocean. Her arms were stretched gracefully in the air, like the legs of a ballet dancer. She was smiling, eyes closed, with her head tilted backward and the edges of her long brown curls draping over her bust line. The music consumed her; she was free. Nothing could get to her while she was dancing, veiled in private joy.
         
I quickly put the photos away at the sound of my mother fiddling with her keys at the front door. Without words, I greeted her in the living room and handed her my poems. For the past four years this notebook had been my outlet for the things I couldn't keep to myself, nor share with anyone else. She read the first page, smiled, and left the room. She returned with a notebook.