Pretty Ugly

“What are you doing?”

The question startled my 9-year-old brother, who was struggling to get the receiver of our wall-mounted telephone back on the hook.

With a tiny ring as it connected, he bolted to the opposite side of the kitchen and very poorly lied:

“I’m trying to get a paper towel, but I can’t reach!”

If this happened today, I probably would’ve called him an idiot for thinking I’d believe that — maybe even punched him in the arm. You know, now that we’re adults and all.

But that morning, I didn’t. I just stood there, 7 years old and confused. Before he could lie again, that same old-school house phone rang. Like clockwork, our older sister came strolling down the stairs and answered it.

“It’s the police.”

They were calling to make sure everything was okay because they’d just received a hang-up call from our number. Weird. I wasn’t worried. Surely, my brother would fess up, and we could all go on with our morning. Then my mom, still groggy, picked up the phone:

“Hello?… Yes… Mmmhmm…
Yes, officer, everything is just fine here. I’ll make sure to talk to the kids about it.
Thank you.”

The Interrogation Begins

We sat at the kitchen table for hours.
H-O-U-R-S.

I promise I’m not exaggerating. Liar McLiar-Pants wasn’t budging from his “paper towel” story and eventually, I cracked. I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I DID IT.”

In my mind, the punishment had already happened — multiple lectures, emotional turmoil, and endless boredom. I figured the worst-case scenario was getting sent to my room. Spoiler: I was wrong.

Handmade Humiliation

“You, ma’am, are going to make a homemade Christmas ornament, march it down to the police station, and apologize for wasting their time.”
— My Mom

“…I DIDN’T DO IT!”
— Me

Too late. My mom didn’t believe me. Or maybe she did — but she was done sitting at that table. Honestly, I’m not sure whose face showed more relief: hers or my lying brother’s.

The ornament? A fleece reindeer magnet.
I tried to Google these things later in life… I’m pretty sure my mom invented them. Seven pages deep, not one matched what we made growing up.

The Smugness

I already mentioned my brother’s face when I took the blame — but let’s talk about the next level smugness he wore the entire ride to the police station. It was unbearable.

Earlier, I was cozy in my pajamas. Now? I was being chauffeured to apologize to the police for something 2/3 of the people in the car knew I didn’t do.

“GIVE ME A LIE DETECTOR TEST!”

I truly believed they’d hook up a 7-year-old girl to a polygraph. At that point, anything felt possible. As the car pulled slowly into the police station lot, I swung the door open, never breaking eye contact with my brother.

Me: dead serious. Him: gloating bro-mode.

I meandered inside, unsure who I was most mad at — myself for taking the fall, my brother for staying quiet, or my mom for making me do this. I placed the magnet on the counter and awkwardly muttered:

“I’m sorry I called 9-1-1 this morning.
I won’t do it again.
……………..I made this reindeer magnet for you…………..”

(If you didn’t read that in the most melodramatic, I-hate-my-7-year-old-life voice — please go back and try again. I’ll wait.)

The Grown-Up Truth

Here’s the thing…

Yes, I took the blame when I shouldn’t have.
Yes, my brother did exactly what I would have done in his shoes.
Yes, my mom did what any parent should do.

And now, as an adult, I can take all of that in. We’ve all grown up, and I’m happy to report that my brother and I get along just fine these days.

…but I’ll never stop telling this story.