My husband just called my eight year old into the office.
“Eldest! I need your help!”
So she comes trotting in, dewy with eight-year-old innocence, her ruffled pinafore wafting around here.
“What is it, daddy?” she asked, brightly.
And he told our eight year old, cool as a cucumber, butter not melting in his mouth, he looked her dead in the eye and said: I need you to help me cheat at my video game.
Shocked.
And appalled.
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