It was bedtime for the kids, and I followed their voices through the house to find them.  In the living room, something odd on the couch caught my eye. "Ouch," I thought, when I zeroed in on it, because what I saw was a Sharpie marker swipe on one of the cushions. Sharpie marker doesn't come off, and now this dark streak was going to be part of the couch's permanent record. I added this misfortune to the list of reasons why everybody hates permanent records.

I called out to Margot and Greta, “Hey guys, will you come in here for a sec?” When they appeared, I pointed to the black mark and asked, “Do you know how this got on the couch? It stinks because it's not gonna come off.” 

They both looked blankly at the stain. 

“So neither one of you did this?” I asked. "I mean I'm sure it was an accident."

They both shook their heads.

“Okay, well thanks anyway,” I said, and then the whole bedtime thing proceeded as it normally would have.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I saw that someone had pushed a page, hotel invoice style, under my door: 

I smiled, proud that Margot thought to attach the large post-it note to a slick piece of copy paper when she discovered its poor sliding performance. The idea of having to rewrite the admission of guilt on something with more glide, in cursive no less, would have been unpalatable to her. Then my heart scrunched up to think of her, up and alone while she completed this sad and stealthy mission, possibly wearing a headlamp. I got up and grabbed the note to show Bo, relieved, but not surprised that she decided to stick with the truth.