“We have a rodent problem,” Sophia says.
She’s right. I’ve seen it. The mouse creeps into our kitchen at night to harvest breadcrumbs from the floor. It’s skinny as a wishbone. Our leavings must seem like a feast.
Like most things, the mouse is my fault.
“Put traps down,” says Sophia. “Take action, for once!”
I take a biscuit. I’m not allowed biscuits before meals.
“Live and let live,” I say, before I can stop myself.
The tirade descends.
My hands drop to my sides. I bow my head as she scolds, and watch the dusty crumbs trickle between my fingers.