The most frightening lie involved our mother's memory.
My stepmother had begun removing photographs from the house.
At first, she claimed they were being dusted or moved during cleaning.
Then some disappeared.
The photograph of Mom holding me as a baby vanished from the hallway.
The family portrait above the fireplace was replaced by a painting.
And the little silver frame beside my bed disappeared while I was at school.
I asked where it went.
My stepmother told me she'd packed it away.
"Why?"
She adjusted a vase on the dresser.
"Because this house needs to move forward."
I stared.
"But that's my mommy."
She looked irritated.
"I know who she is."
I started crying.
She sighed.
"Your father deserves to have a happy marriage without being reminded of his dead wife every time he walks into a room."
I didn't understand.
I only knew that loving Mom suddenly seemed like something that made Dad unhappy.
That evening, I asked my brother whether remembering our mother was wrong.
He shook his head immediately.
"No."
I told him what she'd said.
His expression changed.
Then he left my room.
Several minutes later, he returned carrying the little silver frame.
My mother's photograph was still inside.
I stared.
"Where did you find it?"
He looked toward the hallway.
"Her office."
I took the frame.
My hands were shaking.
"Will she be mad?"
He nodded.
"Probably."
I began crying again.
My brother sat beside me.
"Then keep it somewhere safe."
I looked at him.
"Where?"
He opened the bottom drawer of my desk.
Behind my coloring books was a small wooden box our grandmother had given me.
He placed the photograph inside.
Then he whispered, "She can't take every memory."
I hugged him.
For a long time, we sat together without speaking.
That was the first night I began understanding that my brother wasn't simply protecting me from punishments.
He was trying to protect the part of our family that existed before our stepmother arrived.
A month before the SUV incident, things became much worse.
Our stepmother started talking about a school where children with behavioral problems could stay for extended periods.
She introduced the subject casually at breakfast.
There was a brochure beside her coffee cup.
Its cover showed a large brick building surrounded by green lawns and trees. Several smiling children stood near the entrance, wearing matching polo shirts.
I thought it looked like a boarding school.
My brother picked it up.