Before I left for work that balmy spring morning in McLean, Virginia, I placed my casually worded note on the kitchen counter where my kids couldn’t miss it.

It was April 1997.
Tyler was 17 and Lora was 15. They had the day off from school with no plans, so I didn’t have to compete with more interesting options. Who knew what made me decide to tell them on this particular day, wondering how they would react to my secret.
Maybe this wouldn’t be a big deal to them, but I was apprehensive.
Friends at work warned me, if I waited too long for this true confession, my children would be angry that I had not trusted them. I always stressed to my children that their only choice was to tell the truth.
Now I had to admit that I had lied to them.
Lora called me around 10 a.m., having been awakened by her voracious hunger pangs. I replied that I wanted to meet them for lunch because they had a day off for Good Friday. I sensed this aroused her curiosity because I never met them for lunch. She agreed to get Tyler up in time to arrive in McLean by noon. I assured her that Tyler knew where the Roy Rogers was.
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