In my childhood, my mother had a chocolate allergy. She could only have a bite here and there.

Or so she said. Later, I realized that she fibbed about an allergy to prevent me from feeling self-conscious about eating sweets. She didn’t want an adult focus on managing weight (my mother has stayed svelte my entire life) to affect an impressionable young girl.

Thank you, Mom.

Aside: I wish my grandmother had taken the same tack—from her, I acquired a serious complex about my weight—but that’s another story.

For as long as I believed—and all parents know the magic of childhood ends sooner than later—my parents gifted me the excitement and joy of Santa Claus. My best friend in high school promised to write every day after she moved. In adulthood, friends have assured me that the handsome man at the party couldn’t have noticed the teeth-lodged spinach.

I’m thankful for small lies.

Harmful delusions require truth and awakening—and I’ve needed both at times. Yet, in many cases, small lies make life easier, more fun, and kinder.

What small lies have made you thankful?