I lied the day I became someone’s granddaughter, selling a word that should’ve been sacred for a stack of hospital bills and a few hours’ pay. The agency said he was lonely, nearly blind, and easy, that all he needed was a warm voice and a made-up past. I told myself I could fake love the way I’d faked smiles for customers and teachers. Then Walter opened the door, tilted his head like he could see straight into my marrow, and said, “You’re late, kiddo,” with a relief that didn’t belong to a stranger. The lie snagged inside my chest and never quite came free ag…
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