She came to me, one afternoon. Sitting across, telling lies, she made me laugh and sometimes cry.

With a heavy heart, I saw her wrestling with her demons. Lying about things imagined to appease her hunger for lost respect and love. Her soul was hurting, I could tell. One lie she lied about a father, one lie about a woman. One lie about a wife who never was her mother. Sparing mothers was not her norm, though a mother herself. She lied about herself and lost a sense of pride,  but she never said a word, why was she where she was –

she wasn’t on a hunt, to place the one who stole her father’s heart. She was out to validate her sins playing a blaming game, her lies were her only strength. I was sorry, her time was lost – the time she was her own child.

Telling lies, weaving webs, “I have to go”, she suddenly said.

And that was a life, sacrificed on a father’s false pride that pushed a daughter to a life that never was hers. Not having a son was not her fault but still, she had to pay the price.