Mia blundered from one misperception to another. She poked through a box of old water-damaged schoolbooks, the top two belonging to Dave but the rest were mine that my grandfather had brought back from my parents’ house. Mia, not knowing a flood had erased the names on my books, had assumed them all to be Dave’s. Then, putting two and two together from that error, she convinced herself that his handwriting matched what had been etched into the skirting board, when it was mine. While I wasn’t dyslexic like Dave, Dad’s homeschooling concentrated more on the arts than basics like handwriting.
