Someone could cut through the mess in our house and look at it like one might look at rings on a tree or layers of sediment. They'd find the black-and-white hairs of a dog we had when I was six, the acid-washed jeans my mother once wore, the seven blood-soaked pillowcases from the time I skinned my knee. All our family secrets rest in endless piles.

Lie until even you believe it - that's the real secret of lying

Telling Sam and Daneca feels like peeling off my own skin to expose everything underneath. It hurts.

Secrets hurt the keeper more than you think.