This afternoon, on our way home from the math tutor, my daughter C asked me this question: "Who would you have married if you didn't marry daddy?"

At this point in my parenting career I've learned a few lessons, one of which is that after your kids gets to be about six, it's impossible to pull the wool over their eyes. Maybe it's the tone of your voice or your averted gaze when you're telling that "little white lie"--I'm not sure--but somehow they always know when you're not being straight with them.

My half-baked theory about children is that they're sort of like dogs. They spend a lot of time studying their owners, following them from room to room, watching their every move, tuning themselves to whatever frequency their owners transmit. By the age of six or seven, they can detect the slightest mood swing just by looking into your eyes, and their bullshit meter is finely tuned. So when C asked me this question, I had to make a decision and make it quick. I could either:

1) lie and say, "Daddy was the only man for me," with enough syrupy sweetness to immediately send her into a insulin shock, thereby eliminating any more questions

or

2) I could fess up.

One morning before school, not too long ago, C was combing through my dresser drawer searching for socks when she discovered my stash of her and her sister's baby teeth. They were in a crumpled zip lock baggie and had yellowed with age. All those nibblett-sized teeth looked like tiny stones from an archaeological dig.

"What this?" C asked, holding the baggie up to the light.

I recognized it immediately and quietly swore at myself for not finding a better hiding place. "Nothing," I said, as lightheartedly as I could manage. "Put that back and close my drawer. I think there are clean socks down in the dryer."

But C wasn't taking the bait. She squinted at the bag, and then her expression darkened as she realized what she was looking at. "Are these teeth?"

"Don't worry about it. It's nothing. Close the drawer."

"Are these MY teeth?" She paused for a moment. "Are you the Tooth Fairy?"

There was another long pause. I could practically hear the gears turning. "Are you the Easter Bunny?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She cocked her head to the side. "Are you the leprechaun that puts the potato under my pillow and green dye in my milk?"

"Sweat pea, please. Just close my drawer."

Her frown deepened, then she gasped. "Are you Santa Clause? Are you the one who puts the presents under the tree? Are you the one who jingles those bells on Christmas morning?"

I stood there speechless, in the yawning silence of that awful moment, watching as, one by one, all of those joyful moments toppled like a line of dominos. It was bad. Really bad. Nine years of magical thinking and playful innocence vanished in that instant. Then, C's eyes went all glassy, her face slowly crumbled, and she burst into tears. Standing there, holding my daughter as she sobbed, I regretted every note I'd written in tiny elfish script, every brass bell I'd ever jangled in the pre-dawn light, every jelly bean and chocolate bunny I'd tucked into a patch of tall Spring grass. They were all big fat lies, every one, and every one of them had tumbled out of my mouth. I'd set her up and now she was paying the price.

I won't bore you with the rest of that story, but let's just say I had to work pretty hard to patch her up and restore her sense of hope before we had to run for the bus. But something about the way she looked at me as she waved goodbye told me that things between the two of us would never be quite the same. I was the one who she'd relied on to tell her about the world. I was her protector, her buffer and her filter and now, she couldn't trust me.

So, when C hit me with this question about who I would have married if I hadn't married W, I decided to go for the truth. After all, my credibility was on the line.

"A guy named Dwight," I said. "We grew up together. He lived up the street."

"Did you love him?"

"Yes."

C leaned in closer. Her eyes were wide and she was grinning. "So, why didn't you marry him?"

Oh boy. What had I gotten myself into?

"Because I didn't appreciate the kind of guy he was," I said. But I knew, almost before I spoke the words, that my explanation was insufficient. C would want details. She'd want the whole enchilada. I had to go on. I explained that I had a crush on Dwight all through junior high and high school, but never thought anything would come of it. He was my neighbor, my pal, the guy I played Kick the Can with. We watched Barnaby Jones and Kimba the White Lion together every day after school. But one summer, years later, when we were both home from college, Dwight confessed that he had a crush on me too. Our summer romance ended with a marriage proposal, one which I didn't accept.

"But you loved him, right?"

"Right."

"So why didn't you say yes?"

It's a strange feeling to have your own child point out the faults in your logic and basically confirm that you're an idiot. It's a strange feeling to drive through the darkening city streets talking about your past with someone you've created from nothing, someone who knows who you are now, but doesn't know who you've been.

"Because I thought that when I graduated from college, I had to be serious. Dwight wanted to travel. He wanted adventure and excitement. He wasn't thinking about a getting a job or buying a house or any of that stuff."

"And that's why you didn't marry him?"

"Yeah."

"That's dumb." C fell silent for a moment, then asked, "Was daddy serious?"

Okay, how could I answer that one? The implications were huge. This truth-telling thing was killing me.

"Yeah . . . But in a good way."

I could feel C staring at me. Finally she sat back in her seat and nodded. "I'm glad."

"Me too."

"Did Dwight ever get married?"

"He married a Brazilian woman. I think he lives in Brazil now."

"Does he have any kids?"

"Two. A girl and a boy."

By now, we were a couple blocks from home and I was praying C wouldn't ask me any more questions. Not because I didn't want to answer them, but because I was thinking about Dwight and trying to remember the young woman I was all those years ago. I could picture Dwight standing in my driveway wearing those ridiculous cut-off shorts with orange fringe on the pockets. I could picture his sandy blond hair streaked with gold from all the hours in the sun. I could picture the peeling skin on his nose and the handful of freckles beneath. But that girl? The one I'd been? I could barely remember her.

It's funny how time seals off memories, sort of like the baby teeth I'd stored in that zip lock bag. You recognize them because you remember putting them there, stashing them away. But they're not the same. Over the years, they turn yellow and seem to shrink around the edges. But that's okay. The emotion is still there. Maybe not as fresh as before, but fresh enough. And thanks to C, I have a lot to remember and even more to look forward to if I’m willing to be honest. If I can stand the truth.