Earlier today, my daughter thought she heard a mouse under her bed. It was ironic, because the exterminator had been there only an hour earlier and saw no problems. That should have reassured us, as should the fact we have two chronically hungry cats. Nevertheless, there we were, fretting about a possible mouse under the bed.

Picture two grown women, rubbing their chins and nervously eyeing a perfectly innocent bed. My daughter kicked it a few times from her desk chair, with her feet safely off the floor in case anything scampered out. Nothing happened. I listened intently for any sign of squeaking or scratching. No sounds except the gentle hum of the air-conditioning unit. One of us was just going to have to take a peek.

“You look,” I said.

“No, you look.”

“But it’s not my bed.”

“But you’re the mom.”