She needed to oil her tricycle. Even at four plus, one needs to maintain one's machines. Her mother's sewing machine oil was available, reachable and forbidden, her parents out. Oil spilled into small pools of dangerous thrills and dripped from her little hands like guilt. When interrogated, scared, she denied the act. Evidence was a border she had not yet crossed.
Her father's wrath came down hard: a cane, a hand, a flash of pain, a wall of tears. It wasn't that oil had been used but a lie had been told. She learned her lesson. And broke the rule again only with lovers. Do you trust me? "Yes". The promise to her father was kept until years later he lay on a hospital bed, bleeding; life's wheels, well oiled and turning.
"Am I dying?"
"No, my darling, you are not".