Father's Survival Lies Corrupt Son

I taught Micah to lie before he could write his name. Back then, we needed the lies like we needed food: not to get ahead, to survive. He learned fast. I told him people wanted to believe things that made them feel generous. Made them feel useful. We gave them stories that fit into the space their guilt left behind.
In the beginning, the truth was good enough: a war vet with a prosthetic leg trying to raise a son alone. That truth bought us a few meals and a motel room here and there. But we learned quickly that each person clung to different threads. Some cared about the leg. Some about the lost wife. Some just liked the idea of doing a good deed. So, we became storytellers. I designed the tales, and Micah delivered them with wide eyes and manufactured innocence.
We didn't call it stealing. Not then. We were survivalists. Realists in a world that had left people like us behind.
"Only a fool relies on the kindness of strangers," I used to say. "It's us or them. And it's not going to be us."
Micah used to nod quietly at that. He doesn't wait for my words anymore.
We're in a town near the Great Lakes or maybe the Midwest. The names blur together when you keep moving. Familiar faces mean danger. Repetition exposes patterns. So, we vanish before they catch on.
Micah chooses the marks now. I don't object, though, not because I trust his instincts. He chooses with a sharp eye and an air of command that used to be mine.
I once read crowds like enemy territory, scanning for tells: the slight limp, the nervous tics, the fragile ones trying too hard to look strong. Micah was the bait: a too-small backpack, worn sneakers, and maybe a bandage or two when the story required it.
"The woman at the laundromat. Brown coat, two machines down," he tells me, peeling the label off a bottle of soda.
"Why her?"
"Her hands tremble. She wants to talk but no one ever listens."
"What's the angle?"
Micah shrugs. "Dead dog. Maybe cancer. I'll improvise."
I used to refine the stories like scripts. Polish the language and build the backstory. Now, he improvises like it's jazz. He's better than I ever was. He used to look up to me, though I could never look at him without seeing her.
He learned everything I taught him. Then he made it his own. But it's no longer just survival to him—it's art—a craft. Every new face is a stage, and Micah's ready with the lines. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being about the money. He just wanted me to be proud.
And I was. At least, I told myself I was.
One afternoon, he returns from a run, grinning like a kid with a trophy.
"You should've seen her. Said I reminded her of her son. Gave me two twenties and a bracelet from her wrist. I told her I'd wear it for luck."
I catch him rehearsing at night. Voices ranging from broken to brave. He even sings now and then. Once, I heard him whisper:
"Mommy, why didn't you wait for me? I saved you a seat."
I had to turn away the way he said it—so soft, so cruel.
"You scare me sometimes," I admitted.
He smiled like I'd given him praise.
Another day, we drive past a nursing home. Micah puts a hand on my shoulder.
"Let me try something."
I keep the engine running while he heads in, scarf tied like a schoolboy's bow. He finds a man slumped in a wheelchair by the window. Micah kneels and reaches for the man's hand. I can read his lips: "Grandpa." The man's eyes lift slowly, confused but desperate for the illusion. Micah leans in and whispers. Laughs. The man's eyes fill with tears. Then he slips off a gold chain and presses it into Micah's palm.
Micah returns to the car, chain glinting in the sun.
"Pure gold," he says, inspecting it. "It's like... they want to be fooled."
There it is: pride in his voice and something else. Hunger.
My stomach knots. I'd seen that same mix before—on young soldiers eager to disobey, to taste chaos. They lost their moral compass and called it strength—the feral ones. I used to hate them.
"Did you enjoy it?" I ask him. "The moment?"
He tilts his head, thoughtful. "Yeah. Of course."
I can't sleep that night. His face was so bright with victory that it wasn't the chain. It was the win.
The next morning, I tell him we're leaving.
"No more jobs. Not for a while."
He doesn't argue. We pack up and head west. I don't have a destination. Just away.
We drive for days through forgotten towns, sleeping in the car. The silence grows between us, heavy as a third passenger. On the fourth day, Micah finally speaks.
"Where are we going?"
"Nowhere."
We end up in a coastal town out of season—empty arcades, shuttered ice cream stands, salt in the air. I tell him we'll lay low. Get real jobs. Live straight for a while.
Micah laughs—a low, bitter sound.
"Honest work doesn't suit us."
I take a job helping unload boats. Micah vanishes most days. I don't ask where.
One night, he stumbles in, lip split, hands scraped.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Yeah."
He limps to the bathroom and leaves the door half-open. I find him sitting on the tile, staring at his reflection.
"You hate me now, don't you?"
"No."
And then I say it, though I don't mean it:
"You didn't do anything wrong."
Micah doesn't respond. Just close the door.
I stand there, stunned by the lie. It slips out so easily, so familiar. I sit on the bed and replay the years. I used to think it was all for him—feeding, clothing, protecting him. But it was for me. My grief. My rage. My loss. And Micah absorbed it all. Let it fill him. Not because he was broken but because he wanted me to notice him.
Now, for the first time, I see what I've done. He isn't me. He's worse. I justified my choices: war trauma, heartbreak, hardship. But Micah's reason was simpler. Me.
That night, I pack. I leave him the cash and the keys. I write a note, but nothing fits. So I don't. I walk out quietly.
Not because I don't love him.
But because, at last, I do.
I don't know how far I'll go, somewhere with silence. Somewhere, I can think.
I walk into the dawn, the sea behind me. The salt air stings my lungs. I picture Micah waking up and finding the space. Maybe he'll be angry. Maybe relieved. Perhaps he'll finally understand.
He's got everything he needs now. The stories. The skill. The charm. But maybe—just maybe—he'll find something else.
Something true.
I hope he does. I hope he finds what I never gave him. Something tangible to hold onto that doesn't vanish when the lights come up.
Maybe one day, he'll sit across from someone—not as a mark or a character—but as himself. And perhaps he'll learn that it's okay to be seen without a story.
That the truth, sometimes, is enough.