“My plan was to accidentally-on-purpose leave my binder where I could see it during the test,” she explained.

I did not mention that I’d done that myself a few times. But (tee-hee!) imagine my mother being so daring back then!

Then she said, “I hardly slept that night, worrying about getting caught. I changed my mind with each toss and turn from bedtime till morning, excited, terrified. But it didn’t occur to me that I could use all that intense energy to just study.”

I hoped she wasn’t going to ask me if I’d tortured myself like that last night, because I’d slept like a lamb. She didn’t ask.

So then I figured she was going to tell me that at the last moment she pulled a Katie—

too much moral fiber,
strength of character,
or goody-goodyness

to be able to pull off such a ghastly crime in the light of day.

But no, my mother said that in spite of her

clammy hands
and shaky knees
and cotton mouth,

she did end up cheating off her binder, and she got an A. She said it was the best mark in the whole class and her parents were proud as Punch.

I was afraid the preach part was coming now—the garbage about how guilty she felt accepting their praise. Or how her success tasted like ashes in her mouth. But my mother even spared me all that!

Instead she said, “I’m trying to remember why I did it. All I remember is how hard my heart hammered, pretending to drop my pencil, then scratching an imaginary itch on my ankle so I could sneak a peek at my binder. My blue binder—I even remember the exact shade. And I remember that the terror of getting caught made me sick to my stomach. Now I wonder why it was worth it to me.”

“You wanted to get a good grade?” I yawned.

“I doubt it was that simple,” she said, insulted.

Her own past fascinated her, and she thought I should be deeply interested, too—even in the middle of the night.

You’ll notice she didn’t ask me why I’d cheated. But if she had, what would I have said?

Well, I wouldn’t have said anything. But what was the truth? The secret truth? Was there one?

Why not?

He offered———————– I accepted.
It was as simple——————- as that.
If he’d offered me———a stick of gum
I would have accepted that——- instead.

And it saved me hours of studying (or I thought it would). And who did it hurt?

My father cheating on my mother hurt her. Badly. Not just hurt her, but more or less wrecked her life. Look at her now, all mangled and achy, and it’s been years.

Five, to be exact.