And I thought I was one of a kind

There is a gene (at least in my bloodline) that is passed on from generation to generation giving the recipient the ability to tell a story. A very believeable story. I won't say a good story, because that's subjective. But, well, just sit back, read and enjoy.

When I was a little girl, I had a very active imagination. Most children do. This is not what set me apart from the rest. No. What made me different from others was the fact that I would tell stories and make others believe they happened to me. I could conjur up an endless stream of tears if it was necessary, to have my audience eating out of my hand.
Two prime examples come from my aunt and my mom.

I must have been in kindergarten or around that age, I'm not sure on that fact. We were visiting with some family in Arizona and I wove a tale of heartbreak and tragedy that went something like this:
My dear friend was playing in her yard with a ball when her ball bounced away from her and into the street. She chased the ball and that was when, out of nowhere, a school bus came and she got run over and died.
Ummm, yeah. I had no such friend. I had never even known anyone who this had happened to. But my aunt says that I told this to her with such conviction and so dramatically, she felt horrible for me and that I had to deal with such trauma at a young age. She went to my mom with great concern. My mom put her mind at ease and let her know that I was fine. It was a story. Not real. Basically, I was a liar.

The next time my mom became aware of my talent was after recieving a phone call from a very concerned neighbor. This neighbor had called my mom to see if she needed meals brought in or if my mom needed her to watch the other kids, or if she needed a ride to the hospital. When my mom assured her that she was fine and there was nothing wrong, she said, "Well, Emily came over and asked if I could babysit her because you were sick and were waiting for your husband to come home to take you to the hospital." Pshhh. She was so naive. I only wanted to play and I needed to know that she wasn't going to turn me away at the door, so I had devised a surefire way to get me into her daughter's bedroom. It worked.

Fast forward to this morning. I got a phone call from my friend who has a daughter the same age as Corrine. The two are best friends. We were chatting and she began to tell me about a conversation she had with her own daughter last night. (We had spent the weekend with them.) Apparently, Corrine had told Cèlin that when we lived in Arizona, our house burned down and our dogs, Ellie and Sadie were inside and they burned down with the house. It was very sad. We were gone away for the weekend and when we came home, all we found were ashes of what had been.
Needless to say, this was incorrect. Sadie was my dog when I still lived at home and she died a little over 3 years ago, I think. And Ellie was Corrine's cousins' dog who died about 6 months ago. Our house never burned down. No one died or was hurt. Very unexciting.

So, I guess now I'm wondering where I go from here. Do I reprimand Corrine for falsifying information? Do I let it go and chalk it up to an overactive imagination? Do I praise her for her ability to sell a story? I mean, truly, what's the difference between writing it down and saying it out loud? Does one make it more acceptable than another? What do you think?