My Kids and I Had the Talk -- About Reputation

INT. KITCHEN — MORNING

Messy, crumb-laden kitchen nestled inside Gilded Age condo in Chicago’s gauche Lincoln Park neighborhood. Spring sunshine creeps through the transom above the egress door.

A father — washed, wizened, early forties — listens to the audio edition of The Economist and loads the dishwasher, contented by this fleeting opportunity to control one facet of his rapidly expiring life.

While digesting another astonishingly bad take from the alarmingly mediocre Lexington columnist, he finds himself interrupted by two diminutive yet destructive psychological terrorists.

SON

(Panicked and wailing)

[DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER] hit me!

DAUGHTER

(Panicked and not wailing)

No I didn’t!

SON

(Enraged and wailing)

Yess yoo di-id!

FATHER

(Defeated and internally wailing)

[Removes headphones]

Okay, let’s start over.

[DISAPPOINTING SON], what happened?

SON

(Whimpering)

We wurr wreed-ing a book, an den — den — [DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER] hit me!

DAUGHTER

I did not!

FATHER

(Agitated)

I’m conducting the investigation here, and I have jurisdiction. Now, [DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER], tell the truth, did you hit your brother?

SON

She di-id!

DAUGHTER

[DISAPPOINTING SON] was flailing all over the place and laying on top of me and interrupting the story!

FATHER

That sounds super annoying. But you didn’t answer my question, did you?

DAUGHTER

Well…

FATHER

Did. You. Hit. Your. Brother?

DAUGHTER

(High-pitched lying voice)

No.

SON

She DI-id!

FATHER

[Exhales deep, despairing sigh]

Look [DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER], here’s the reality. After seven years of your nonsense, how could I possibly believe you?

DAUGHTER

I didn— 

FATHER

Nope. Stop right there. It was a rhetorical question and I’m lecturing now. If you don’t want to hear it, go become a TikTok influencer and move out.

DAUGHTER

(Sulky)

Fine.

FATHER

Now, I’d like to believe you didn’t hit your brother, [DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER].

But I can’t. You remember why?

DAUGHTER

(Huffy)

Yes!

FATHER

Why?

DAUGHTER

(Annoyed)

Because I’m a paffo-, pafto-something liar.

FATHER

(Gloating)

Ding ding ding!

Pathological.

Pa-tho-law-ji-cal.

You know what that means? Let’s get a proper definition from our friends at Merriam-Webster:

“Being such to a degree that is extreme, excessive, or markedly abnormal.”

For example, a pathological liar.

DAUGHTER

But I didn’t hit him!

FATHER

Every time you speak, you strengthen my case.

See, do you remember when Mommy caught you stealing candy from the pantry, and she told you to ask before just taking treats, and you said okay, and you definitely wouldn’t do it again, and then I found like twenty empty wrappers stuffed under your brother’s mattress? Even though he can’t open them?

You remember that?

Or how about that time you guys damaged the wall downstairs? And I asked who did it? And each of you said the other committed the transgression?

Remember what happened then?

I do.

You — [DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER’S FULL NAME] — convincingly lied and doctored the evidence to implicate your brother. Then you willingly watched him go to timeout and lose screen time — like a total sadist — even though you knew in your heart you were the culprit all along.

You remember that? I remember that. I still have nightmares.

Or what about at school last month, when you allegedly told your teacher and classmates during “Sharing Time” that [REDACTED] injured my knee at the trampoline gym — even though [REDACTED] had nothing to do with it?

Remember what happened after that?

I got super mad at you for spreading disinformation, and told you we’d have to apologize to [REDACTED]’s parents for your malicious and slanderous lies.

And then you panicked and told me — “well, actually” — you made the whole thing up, and you didn’t tell your classmates and teacher that [REDACTED] injured my knee at the trampoline gym after all.

Remember that insanity?

I sure do.

You created such a vortex of lies I didn’t know what to believe. So I told you I’d have to email Miss S. and sort out exactly what did and didn’t occur during class.

And do you remember what you did then?

Do you?

DAUGHTER

(Defiant)

I had a meltdown!

FATHER

(Triumphant)

You had a cataclysmic meltdown!

Replete with pushing and shoving and screaming and a few death threats too.

You were shook. Because you knew if I emailed Miss S. and told her what happened, she’d think you were a liar. And she’d realize you weren’t a sweet, happy-go-lucky little girl after all.

No, she’d realize you were actually, in fact, a psychopath, who wore a person suit all day to mask her true identity.

You didn’t want Miss S. to think that, did you?

DAUGHTER

(Meekly)

No.

FATHER

(Preparing the coup de grâce)

That’s because you feared damaging your reputation.

Reh-pew-tay-shun.

You ever hear that word?

DAUGHTER

No.

FATHER

Merriam-Webster provides three definitions, but the second is the most relevant:

“A place in public esteem or regard : good name”

As in, [DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER] didn’t want me to tell Miss S. about her lies and deception, because she wanted to protect her reputation.

Stop me if any of this sounds incorrect.

SON

[DISAPPOINTING DAUGHTER]’s a wy-ar. She shood o-pin her ee-yers.

FATHER

She sure should, Bud.

But this is an important lesson for both of you.

See, everybody has a reputation. Friends, family, neighbors, movie stars, politicians, the characters in your favorite books and TV shows — you name it.

And everybody builds their reputation over time based on how they act and behave — especially around other people.

Mommy has a wonderful reputation. People see her as someone who’s intelligent and kind and generous and sneakily sarcastic.

I have a reputation, too.

As a blunt, condescending, know-it-all jerk, who insists on being right about everything — consequences be damned.

But I can live with that. Because I also have a reputation for doing exemplary work. And for being a tireless grinder. And for being loyal and reliable and accountable.

And — most pertinent to this conversation — I have a reputation for being honest.

I don’t lie. Ever.

Because what happens when you lie?

DAUGHTER

(Deflated)

People find out. And then they can’t trust you.

FATHER

Which brings us full circle.

I can’t believe you when you say you didn’t hit your brother.

First of all, he says you did. And even though he has a burgeoning credibility problem, you’ve established an ironclad reputation as a pathological liar.

Someone who’s virulently untrustworthy.

There’s a famous expression that’s operative here:

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Basically, if I know you’re a liar, and I keep choosing to believe you, then that makes me an idiot.

Are you connecting the dots yet?

DAUGHTER

(Testy)

Ugh — yes!

FATHER

Well, the only good news is you can still turn things around.

You can repair your reputation, and earn back my trust. Doing so will take a lot of time, and will require you to demonstrate you can tell the truth from now on.

Every. Single. Time.

Got it?

DAUGHTER

(Condescending)

Yes.

FATHER

Okay.

So I’m gonna ask you one last time: Did you hit your brother?

DAUGHTER

I was just pretending to hit him!