No Man Knows My History, Not Even Me

They are eating Thanksgiving dinner, and a girl from his mission—the girl he will marry five months later—is sitting next to him and across from his mother.

“So my mom is not like other moms. Most moms don’t want their kids in football but mine made me play football.”


“Yeah. Seventh grade. My mom announced that every Texan needs a year of football and signed my brother and me up for city league football. I fell in love with it and played all the way through high school.”


His mother sets down her fork.

“You don’t really still believe that story, do you?”

“Uh, why wouldn’t I? You’re my mom.”

“That’s the story I told you but it’s not the real reason why.”

“Uh, ok?”

“I made you play football because you were such a wuss and got picked on so much. You had to do something to toughen up and stand up for yourself.”

He sets his fork down.


She picks hers up.

“Well it worked. I just can’t believe you believed that story all these years.”

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