Growing up, our kitchen was a battlefield. The signal to batten down the hatches? Dad’s lunch pail, landing with the force of righteous thunder on the chipped counter. That clanging thermos had more authority than the President. “This is my house,” he’d declare, chest out, sweat still fresh on his brow. “I pay the bills. I’m the boss.�

The Wrath of Exposure: A Reflection on Lies and Their ConsequencesThey come, those who twist the truth into something unrecognizable, something dangerous. I know them well—those who manipulate the light, twist the heart, and wear masks of lies like armor. But no matter how well they disguise their treachery, the truth has a way of clawing its way