At seven years old, our son became obsessed with fishing, not just fishing, but becoming the best fisherman who catches the biggest fish. He read books on the subject and talked about it incessantly.

This took us by surprise. We had no idea how our child developed this interest. Neither my husband nor I are fisher people. When asked, Bruce said the closest he’d come to fishing was when he was a teenager in Hampton Harbor, NH. He worked as a deckhand on charter boat and occasionally threw the anchor overboard.

I fished half-heartedly during the few years I lived in a small farmhouse that overlooked a pond in Connecticut. I loved casting but hated piercing a squirming worm with the hook. I also found no pleasure watching a live fish writhing on same hook. Though, hypocrite that I am, I suffer no pangs eating a fish that anyone else catches.

For his birthday, our son asked for a fishing rod and books on fishing, then begged us to go on a fishing trip. At the time, we lived in Kentucky and booked a weekend at a cabin near Lake Cumberland.

The more excited the child grew about the impending trip, the more my anxiety rose. I hated disappointing my children. I tried to avoid it all costs. Given my inadequate fishing skills and Bruce’s lack of interest and experience, I couldn’t guarantee that the boy would catch a fish, let alone catch the biggest, best fish. However, before we left, I found an establishment I believed would provide a failproof fishing experience. After paying an entry fee, all you had to do was drop your line into a narrow channel where hundreds of fish flashed by—so many you could dip your hand into the water and grab a few. I can’t remember what kind of place this was—maybe hatchery that needed to thin out the fish herd? Regardless, our son could hardly contain himself when we arrived.

Standing above the stream, he slipped a plastic orange worm onto his hook. The child smiled then cast his line into the water. He spent the next hour or so, reeling and casting, reeling and casting. Nothing. Not even a nibble.

After a while, his smile faded; his little shoulders slumped. At one point, our son swung wide and landed his line in a bush several feet away. When I went over to disentangle it, I found a dead fish lying in the dirt. Not only had its piscine soul passed on to the Great Blue Yonder, but its earthly remains had begun to decompose.

I didn’t think twice. I slipped the fake worm off of the hook, looked for the least ravaged part of the fish, then jammed the hook into its putrid flesh. I slid the mess into the water, gingerly dragging the line as I walked. I yelled, “Fish! Fish! Reel it in!” Which he did.

I kept shouting with as much gusto as I could muster, given the depth and breadth of my deception. A photographer from the Louisville Courier Journal happened by and snapped a picture of our child hauling the corpse out of the water. Neither we nor the reporter mentioned the obvious. Our son didn’t seem to notice either. Perhaps we all tend to see what we want to see?

Soon after, a photo of our son and the fish appeared in the paper. The whole event was a deus ex machina moment for the Prum family. Definitely a win-win, if you disregard the lie upon which the article was based.

Deep in our hearts, most of us parents understand both the impossibility and inadvisability of protecting children from disappointment. That being said, do I feel guilty about lying to my child? Yes. Would I embrace my moral failure on this issue and do it again, let’s say with a grandchild? Yes, dear reader, almost certainly.