She was doing well at school. She was, by every measure I had, fine.

She came into the kitchen that night while I was washing up and said, “We need to talk about Max.”

“I know.”

“No — I mean we need to talk about who decides.”

I turned the tap off.

“I’ve been thinking about it since Christmas,” Lia said. She had clearly rehearsed it and she said it fast. “She’s my dog. She was Great-Grandma’s and then she was mine, and when it’s time I want it to be me who says so.