Sarah Kishpaugh

Making Believe

Trauma compartmentalizes life into before and after. Before the accident people at work knew me as a friendly front desk lady. After the accident, I was seen as a brave wife and mother. Once I was promoted to full-time staff, my colleagues pressed me for the scoop on Miles's impressive survival. I spoon-fed it to them, explaining how he had vision issues and we weren't sure yet what he'd be doing for work.

My defensive armor was so intact I take full responsibility for what happened at a routine Monday morning staff meeting. On my way to the conference room, the CFO pulled me aside and said, "I'd like to give you a few minutes to address the staff." I was a little surprised, since normally my manager would be the one to share our department's news. "No, no," she told me. "We want to hear about Miles."

When it was my turn I was a shaking mess. I took the microphone and gushed about how my colleagues had been so generous to take up the slack in my absence. I thanked everyone for contributing to the home meal-delivery service. Then came the big lie, the lie I didn't plan on telling.

"Miles is..." Deep breath. "...Miles is about ninety-percent toward making a full recovery."


Selected Works

Essay
Chicken Soup for the Soul
Nonfiction
Bitch Magazine
Guest Blogs
Feminist Wednesday
The Writer in the World

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