The Forgery That Never Was
“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about”
Lynn loved playing pretend. At eight years old, her favorite game was “mommy,” where she would mimic all the grown-up things she saw her mother do. She would carry a purse, talk on a toy phone, and write important-looking scribbles on paper, just like mom did.
One day, while playing in her parents’ room, she found a pad of paper with beautiful swirling patterns on it. The papers were special — they had numbers on them and looked just like the ones her mother would write on at the store. Delighted with her discovery, Lynn took one of these special papers and played her favorite game, making careful loops and swirls with her pen, just like she’d watched her mother do countless times.
She treasured her “important paper” and hid it in her dresser drawer, along with other precious things like pretty rocks and colorful leaves she’d collected. To Lynn, it was just another toy in her game of make-believe, no different from her drawing pad or tea set.
The day her mother found the check, Lynn’s world shattered. Her mother’s face contorted with rage as she waved the paper in Lynn’s face, screaming words that made no sense: “forgery,” “criminal,” “theft.” Lynn’s small mind couldn’t grasp these concepts; they were as foreign to her as reading Shakespeare or calculating algebra.
“You’re going to jail!” her mother shrieked, grabbing Lynn’s arm and dragging her to the bus stop. Lynn’s tears flowed freely as her mother angrily dragged her to the bank, all while spewing threats and accusations. The little girl’s heart pounded as she was marched up to the teller’s window, her mother demanding the police be called to arrest her daughter for forgery.
The teller, a kind-faced woman, looked at the crying child with sympathy, but said nothing to stop the tirade. No one explained to Lynn what she had done wrong. No one took a moment to teach her about money or banks or why writing on certain papers was different from drawing on others. Instead, she was left in a tornado of adult anger and incomprehensible accusations.
That evening, when her father came home, the punishment continued. The physical pain of the beating would fade, but the confusion and fear would embed themselves deep in Lynn’s psyche, forming roots that would grow throughout her life.
Decades later, Lynn’s mother still tells the story whenever she gets the chance, painting herself as the victim of her eight-year-old daughter’s “criminal behavior.” The flying monkeys in her orbit — enablers of her narcissistic narrative — nod and agree at appropriate moments, never questioning the logic of a kindergartener orchestrating financial fraud.
The incident became one of many threads in a tapestry of confusion and self-doubt that would color Lynn’s adult life. She learned early that not understanding something was a punishable offense, that asking for explanations was dangerous, and that she was somehow inherently wrong in ways she couldn’t comprehend.
This driving fear of being “wrong” pushed Lynn to excel in everything she touched. She graduated at the top of her class, earned advanced degrees, and became renowned in her field. Every achievement was a desperate attempt to finally earn her mother’s approval, to prove she wasn’t the criminal child of her mother’s stories. But no amount of success could bridge the chasm of understanding that had opened that day at the bank.
The perfectionism that drove her to these heights came at a cost. Years of over-functioning, of trying to be the best at everything, left her exhausted. The constant strain of trying to prove her worth through achievement had taken its toll. Now, in her forties, Lynn faced a new challenge: learning to heal from the burnout of a lifetime spent trying to compensate for crimes she never understood.
Some days, she still catches herself hesitating before signing checks, a ghost of that long-ago fear flickering through her mind. The little girl who just wanted to play pretend still lives within her, waiting for someone to finally explain what she did wrong, still hoping for the understanding that never came.
We should approach others with compassion and understanding because we don’t know their personal struggles, past traumas, or current challenges. Everyone carries invisible burdens, and a small act of kindness could mean more than we realize to someone who’s struggling.
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