Through the Lens of My Mother’s White Lies

The real damage was evident after her death

Photo by Fausto García-Menéndez on Unsplash

The first lie I ever heard came from my mother. I can’t pinpoint an exact moment; that would be like trying to count the stars in an endless constellation. How do I convey all I witnessed when I didn’t have the cognitive sense or conceptual understanding?

Picture a child holding a mother’s hand, standing in a field of summer flowers, faces turned upwards towards the clear blue sky as the sun beams down. The mother gently turns to the child and whispers, “Hurry, love, run, it’s going to rain. Can’t you see?”

The child, confused, can’t see the clouds but trusts her mother completely. Between them lies only love and kindness. It must be true if her mother said it. As far as the child knows, the sky might be falling as well, so she races into the woods beyond as quickly as she can, still clutching her mother’s hand. She doesn’t want to get soaked if the sky comes down on her.

This interpretation was how I first started to understand white lies. I would hear many more before I realised they were my mother’s usual way of coping, a kind of fight or flight, even when there weren’t any threats. She was always ready, just in case. Mum’s lies were her way of surviving.

I was raised to believe that lies were necessary in the house where I grew up. My father couldn’t handle the truth, apparently. Little white lies would soften the blows, my mother explained, but they never did. Imagine if he’d known the truth; we’d all be buried in the backyard along with the bodies of dogs and rabbits. As a child, that’s what I assumed.

My mother’s mantra

“Don’t tell your father. We’ll just say…” and a hundred excuses would finish that sentence.

The smallest details would be altered in her confessions to my father. If he asked how much the groceries cost, she would deduct a few dollars from the bill. He’d still complain. So why bother lying?

If I tallied every piece of false information Mum fed Dad during their forty-nine years together, it could form a new constellation—each star a shining lie in a sea of falsehood.

“How long did that take... What time did you get home... How many whiskies have you had today... What did your mother want... Did you lend your father money again... Did the boys do what I asked... Were you on the phone all day... How much did that bloody cost..."

Every. Single. Question.

It didn’t matter what Dad asked. Mum would fabricate the answer to fit the mood, as if she could predict that. He never got the truth. He just didn’t know it.

By age ten, I realised the importance of white lies and the consequences of big lies if Mum was off her game, usually from too much whisky. It all depended on the question and Mum’s quickness with the answer. If she got it wrong, and a tiny seed of doubt was planted in Dad’s mind, God help us.

You could feel it in the air without even looking at Dad — a palpable energy that radiated and seeped into every molecule in the room. It was suffocating. My whole body would vibrate as I waited for the explosion.

Oh, how I hated it when I sensed that energy. I would hear Mum talking, and I would think, “Mum. Please stop. Shut the hell up. You’ve lost him. It’s not working. Dear Lord, make her stop!”

I couldn’t say the words out loud. I couldn’t meet her gaze for fear of Dad noticing. I couldn’t save her from her lies.

But what if I was wrong? It happened. Sometimes it was me off my game and not Mum at all. She knew him better than I did. She’d been playing this game long before I was born. What if all those whiskies hadn’t clouded her judgement, and she knew exactly what she was doing?

By the time I turned thirteen, I’d outdone her, mastering the art of the white lie. And I was always one step ahead.

Becoming supernatural

Initially, I thought my mother didn’t realise—my father certainly didn’t—that she never looked him in the eye when she lied. She often stood at the kitchen sink, her back to him, or busied herself with some chore while telling her lies—a perfect distraction.

But if they sat across the table from each other and she had no credible excuse to look away, I noticed the subtle movement of her eyes, the slight downward glance, a quick dart to her peripheral vision, and the blink as the lie left her mouth. I learned all the delicate ways she controlled the situation.

I would marvel at her cleverness, letting Dad think he had all the power. He had none when he wasn’t using his fists.

Looking back, my parents’ marriage was my first experience with NLP (Neuro-linguistic programming) when that wasn’t even a thing. I became an expert in body language and the intricate signs of liars.

I wish I’d taken that as a career path. I might have noticed the signs waiting for me in my first marriage. My ex-husband was the king of lies, and I didn’t see any of it. You’d think with my childhood and experience, I’d be a master at it. Instead, I was just a master fool.

The universe is full of irony.

Psychics see dead people and relay important messages to their clients, yet they can’t ‘read’ themselves. Landscapers craft postcard-perfect gardens for customers, but some are pressed for time to mow their own lawns. Chefs create edible art for their clientele, but I’d bet some can’t be bothered to cook when they get home.

And so, it’s true of those who can peg people in the first five minutes of meeting them; every subtle detail, flaw, or idiosyncrasy they possess is written in invisible text all over their bodies. Yet, they can’t see what’s right under their noses, sleeping in the bed next to them.

Cruel, cruel irony.

The truth about lies

The older I got, the more uncomfortable I felt about Mum’s lies. My gut would twinge at the next indiscretion within earshot. I understood why she sometimes lied; avoiding my father’s wrath was a top priority. The big lies, like bailing my brother out of jail when Dad didn’t even know he was locked up, were understandable. I didn’t want my brother to die either. There was always a chance Dad might kill one of my brothers during a beating.

I get that lie.

But the thing was, I saw no benefit in all the white lies. If it kept the peace, it was minimal and rare. Dad’s rage couldn’t be tamed if it was rage he was after. If it was a bad day, and many days were, no lie would make it better.

“Mum, seriously, why all the lies? Just tell him the real cost of the bill, for God’s sake. He probably knows anyway, so you’re just pissing him off.”

“Love, it’s just easier…”

Really. Is it though?

I instinctively sensed that Dad knew he was married to a liar. I wonder if his gut feeling that something was off with his wife caused him so much turmoil.

Did his emotional immaturity, inability to communicate effectively, and limited English vocabulary hinder his growth, or was it simply my mother? I assumed his Italian background influenced his unpredictable behaviour, but it wasn’t solely that.

On a subliminal level, was some ghostly inner voice wreaking havoc on Dad’s psyche? A child of the Great Depression, a silent generation reject, never quite measuring up to the silent part of his title.

I despised my father for years before I finally learned to love him. As an adult, I realised he didn’t deserve the lies; no one does.

A million tiny white lies accumulate into a life built on deception. When I realised how that felt, my soul mourned for my father. It didn’t justify his cruelty, but it revealed the fallout of betrayal. He knew. He just didn’t realise how deep it went.

The aftermath

When Mum died, she unwittingly left a trail of lies like a path of proverbial breadcrumbs. Little things he would notice, how could he not? He had to take over where she’d left off, with my help. And he needed help.

Mum had been the driving force in their lives in every aspect: banking, bills, insurance policies, and the mountain of paperwork accumulated over a lifetime. No matter how tough the outcome, I wasn’t prepared to keep playing the game.

The thought of looking my father in the eye and lying was too much to bear. I knew what lay ahead. So be it. I had to suck it up.

It was excruciating to watch. Sitting opposite him at the table, staring at figures for one thing or another, revealing parts of their life together he didn’t know about. I could see the revelations flicker across Dad’s face. He didn’t say much; he was never a man of many words. Now mellowed, too tired for rage and too broken to hold it.

“You okay, Dad?”

He’d nod. Pride intact. Ego too large to cry or ask, “but why would she do that?”

My father cried only once in my life, and it wasn’t long after we sat at that table, going through documents together. Mum’s funeral flowers weren’t dead yet.

Back at home. He called me.

“Did your mother choose to die because of me? Was it all my fault?” Dad sobbed into my ear.

I was so shocked it left me speechless. He must have thought I hung up, the pause too long. Somehow, I found my voice.

“Don’t be silly, Dad. It was just her time…”

Even I didn’t believe my words. They were enough to make him stop. He must have had a brain snap. I could sense his embarrassment through the phone.

“Yep. Sorry. Bye.”

He was gone. I was left staring at my phone, wondering what just happened.

He never mentioned it again. I didn’t dare bring it up out of fear of more embarrassment. But I knew it was about the uncovered lies.

I couldn’t imagine what my father was going through after Mum’s death— all that betrayal. How was he coping without losing his mind, unable to talk to anyone? I’d find out soon enough. Five months later, it would be me sobbing in his ear as the fallout of my husband’s secret double life was revealed and my world came crashing down.

“Don’t cry, darling. It’ll be okay.”

It was the kindest thing my father had ever said to me, and it made me cry even more. I cried for all the lies we’d both endured at the hands of those who loved us.

Final thoughts

I doubt there is any lie that is ever justifiably acceptable, unless it’s for safety.

My mother’s artful white lies helped me escape some scary situations. Without that skill, I might not be here today. So maybe those are justified—like spy lies—necessary.

Mum taught me some terrible lessons that took me decades to decipher. I judged her, held strong opinions, and swore to the Gods I would never do that. I would be better.

I failed.

The lies told during my first marriage were the most damaging. It was never one-sided; we were both guilty of lies. My marriage was doomed from the start, just like my parents’. They may have stayed together, but it still ended in betrayal.

Even the tiniest white lie has consequences eventually. It’s like the metaphorical butterfly effect — those flapping wings causing a tornado on the other side of the world. That’s impossible, of course, but the lies we tell, even to ourselves, are just bad juju and will eventually cause a storm of varying severity.

I’ve weathered many. I know.

I wish I could tell my mother how grateful I am for the lessons. They have softened my heart, calmed my judgement of others, and made me see that we're all just living our stories, doing our best, and looking after what needs to be done until life gives us the lessons.

If only she knew all that.

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Thanks for reading, friends. May the truth set you free.

A version of this story was first published on Medium.

© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved

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