Yesterday I discovered a black hand print on our white bathroom sink.
“Which one of you put a hand print on the sink?” I demanded to the three suspects, who were buried behind their iPads in the living room.
“It wasn’t me,” they chanted on cue.
A mother knows her babies’ handprints, and so I shifted my focus to primary suspect #1.
“Anna, do you have something you need to tell me?”
You may recall that Anna just spilled her guts to a priest during her First Reconciliation last weekend, purging her soul of a laundry list of sins, thereby restoring it to its natural, pristine state.
“I didn’t do it,” she declared.
“Anna, the evidence is right there on the sink.”
“Why do you always blame me?” she persisted.
“Anna. You left your hand print.”
She blinked.
“I can match your hand to the hand print,” I decoded. “If they’re the same size, that means it belongs to you.”
I watched her blank stare melt into miffed acquiescence.
“Fine,” she huffed.
And with that, her newly pristine soul is black as the evidence before us.