This memoir essay recounts when being comfortable with people who lie was part of my everyday experience. From working flea markets, to deceptive friends, to my own mother, navigating the truth from fiction was a regular occurence. 
 
Short sample:
"This was the distinction that our family’s ethics hinged upon. My mother never lied to the woman. She allowed the woman to make her own associations. Our family code was very clear about this: a lie of omission is not a lie. A secret is not a lie. If you were confronted with a direct question, you were obligated to tell the truth. Sometimes this did not require the whole truth. The quest for answers depended upon asking the right question."