Part 1The Baby Who Remembered Murder

My father always said I was a liar.

In preschool, when a plastic truck got stepped on, I said I wasn’t the one who broke it. He told the teacher I was lying.

Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Peterson, came over to borrow a wrench and noticed a dark purple bruise on my father’s calf. When he asked what happened, I said Mom had kicked him. My father laughed it off, claiming he’d just walked into the coffee table, and told Mr. Peterson that I just loved to make things up.

When Grandpa Hank asked if my dad was good to me, I told him the truth: "No, he's not my real dad." My father chimed in from the doorway, "Hank, I told you, the kid has a vivid imagination. He can't tell fact from fiction." Grandpa Hank just sighed, rubbed my hair, and let it go.

I was five when my father applied for a major promotion at the county utility commission. Because it was a government-adjacent role handling public funds, they sent representatives to our house to conduct a routine background and character check.

That was the day everyone finally realized that everything I had ever said was true.

* * *

On the day of the interview, three people came to our house.

There was Mr. Burke, a stern-looking man in his late forties who led the questions. A young woman named Lucy, who sat with a laptop to take notes. And an older gentleman with thinning silver hair who sat quietly at the end of our sofa.

Mr. Burke started with the basics, asking my father standard questions: date of birth, where he grew up, his parents' names, and when he and my mother got married. My father answered effortlessly, his smile warm and perfectly measured.

Mr. Burke nodded, noting down a few things, before turning to me. His expression softened. "And what about you, buddy? Is your dad good to you?"

The living room fell dead silent.

"He hits me," I said. "A lot."

My mother's hand froze as she set down a teacup.

My father's smile didn't slip, but I noticed his fingers tremble slightly against his knee. He let out a soft, helpless laugh—the sound of a patient, wounded parent. He looked at Mr. Burke and shook his head.

"You see what I have to deal with, Mr. Burke? He's like this all the time. Not a single word out of his mouth is true."

He gently pulled up my sleeve, exposing my bare arm. It was smooth, pale, and completely unmarked.

"You be the judge, Mr. Burke. If I beat him every day, would he look like this?"

Mr. Burke looked at my arm and remained silent.

My father kept going, his voice growing thick with emotion. "He’s been doing this since he was three. His preschool teacher said he pushed another child off the slide, and he absolutely refused to admit it. The moment I try to discipline him, he goes around telling everyone I abuse him."

Tears began to well up in my father's eyes, his voice cracking. "Since the day he was born, I've given him everything. Food, clothes, toys—he's never wanted for anything. And this is how he repays me, by badmouthing me to anyone who will listen... I don't know what I did to make him hate me so much."

My mother sighed beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's true, Mr. Burke. He’s had this issue since he was a toddler. We even took him to see a child psychologist—"

"I'm not sick," I said.

The room went quiet again.

I looked straight at Mr. Burke. "He really does hit me. It hurts."

Mr. Burke studied me for a long moment. "Where does he hit you, Toby?"

I had to think about it. My thighs. But that was in the summer when I wore shorts, and the bruises had faded. My ears. But the redness from having my ears pulled vanished quickly; they weren't red now.

"He just does," I said quietly.

My father didn't say another word. He just stared at me, tears streaming down his cheeks. They looked so incredibly real.

Mr. Burke sighed and turned to my father, his tone turning sympathetic. "Kids say hurtful things when they're angry. We understand."

He closed his notebook, looking ready to wrap up.

But the silver-haired older gentleman, who had been silent the entire time, suddenly spoke. "And why does your father hit you?"