Vanessa turned around, snatched a yellow sponge off the edge of the sink, and started scrubbing the granite counter behind the stove.

She scoured the same four-inch patch of stone again and again, her knuckles white against the dark granite.

“You always do this,” Vanessa said, her high voice getting sharper.

“You always turn every tiny household accident into an international emergency.”

“She’s four years old, Vanessa.”

“And she needs to learn to listen,” Vanessa said, scrubbing so hard the sponge squeaked on the counter.

“She was told not to sit in that chair.”