Why lie about keeping distant

I always keep my distance. We don't call. We don't text. We don't invite. I tell them we are busy. This is at least partially true, with so many jobs and so little time, and with limited resources, we are always running. While we live close, it would be unfair to do more than a check-in every once in a while. Here are some lovely photos. Here are my kids interests. It's true that we keep our distance. Its true that you would hardly know who we are if you saw us on the street. Even if you know what we look like, the little vagueries that we share on social media, it would be impossible for you to know us. I lie when you ask me to. I tell you I'm too busy for a drive, for a call. Too busy for a visit. I lie to my kids and say that you, too, are busy. Those lies are small. They are punishing only for me. You don't care about the lies, because you don't really care about the calls and the visits. Because I've seen what those visits have done. I've seen the looks passed around when you think I can't see them: the assesed measurements, the quiet inspections. I've heard the calls. Heard the quiet whispers, picking, and poking, and peeling back layers, like a skinned thing that you couldn't help but devour whole. I lie because I can't imagine doing it to them, taking that from them, breaking them to bits, as you have done to me. I lie because the lies you tell are large, so hard to swallow that I've choked on them all of my life. They too, are punishing, only for me. I lie because all anyone believes are the lies that we've told. I would rather have them hear my lies than to hear how small you really think they are, or how unworthy. I lie so that they will rise greater than all of us. I lie so that they will not know that terrible voice beating them down.