The Hardest Confession

Two thousand pounds of thick, unbearable iron. That’s what it felt like. Two thousand pounds of dirty, rotten iron resting on his shoulders. A secret of that weight is one awful thing to bear.

He had to do something. He had to tell someone. But who to tell?

His friends wouldn’t understand. His parents would disown him. He was alone.

Teachers? No. They wouldn’t care. A counselor maybe? He’d think about it.

Months passed. He did nothing. He told no one. Two thousand pounds turned into three thousand, then four. He had to do something! He couldn’t live like this anymore!

Finally, he worked up the courage. He went to his mother. She was sitting alone in the living room reading a romance novel. It was dark. Her lamp was the only source of light.

“Mom?” he said, shakily.

“What, honey?” she said, looking up slowly from her book. She saw the concern in his face. “What is it?”

Could he do this? Could he really tell someone? A secret of this magnitude wouldn’t be easy for someone else to handle.

After a few minutes, he took a deep breath. “It was me,” he finally said. “I stole the cookie from the cookie jar…”