"Tell the truth and shame the devil," she demands'
"It was me," I sob penitently. Grandma pulls me to her, says I'm a good, honest girl.
Years later my brother shapes this into an anecdote.
"Who confesses to a crime they didn't commit?" he asks. I remember the seldom heard praise, the smell of Yardley's Lavender and the unfamiliar softness of Grandma's twinset against my cheek, and I only smile.