“Are you going to?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

Lia sat down at the kitchen table and read it twice more on her own phone.

“She’s right that it wasn’t her fault,” she said eventually. “She was seven. She said a dog’s eye looked gross. I’ve said worse than that this week.”

“I called her spoiled,” I said. “In the post. In writing, in public, when she was seven.”

“I know,” said Lia. “I read it at twelve, remember.”