The day I had to tell my children their mother and I were separating, I called them into the Dining Room, instructed them to come home promptly after school, that we were to conduct an important family meeting.
About what? Their eyes wide with wonder.
Unable to bring myself to tell them the truth, I fabricated a story concerning a family trip to the Azores.
The boys whooped with laughter and sprang out the front door onto the brick sidewalk, yelping and howling like Indians. I'm fairly certain they were mistaken about the location of the Azores.
By the time their mother arrived to see what all the commotion was about, the boys had raindanced their way around the streetcorner.
I informed her of my actions. She was appalled. She demanded to know what had brought me to say such a thing. She said it was devious, malicious and cruel. I told her I figured it was easier to let them be happy now and crush their spirits later. At least this way they wouldn't be apprehensive all day.
She slapped me on the face and called me a bastard.
I said that at least for the next six hours, one rotten lunch and two recesses, their dreams weren't dead like mine.
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