The Lie: Yes, your sister won, but that’s because I let her win.
The Truth: I have absolutely no idea how my eight-year-old daughter beat me at chess, and it terrifies me. Am I now to extrapolate that my mental facilities have dipped below those of someone who routinely glues her fingers together? Accepting that one’s children are intellectually feeble is disappointing, but tolerable; losing to one of them in a game of strategy is deeply worrisome. I’d be far less concerned if I’d been beaten by a trained monkey who randomly chose its moves by flinging its poo at a chessboard painted on the wall of its enclosure.
Some might foolishly encourage me to interpret Olivia’s unexpected victory as a demonstration of cognition and intelligence, but years of lackluster report cards and persistent finger-gluing have long since disavowed me of any such inclination.