So I gave her an honest one.
“Sometimes I do,” I admitted. “And then I look at him.”
Barnaby thumped his tail once.
Small.
Like: Don’t become what hurt her.
Sarah swallowed hard and said, “I can’t be a comment section.”
And something about that sentence hit me.
Because she was right.
People always say, “Don’t read the comments.”
Like the comments aren’t written by real humans.
Like cruelty doesn’t count if it’s typed instead of spoken.
Sarah looked up at me, eyes raw. “What do I do?”
I took a breath.
“First,” I said, “we protect your peace.”
She stared.
I continued, carefully. “We don’t reply to strangers who want a reaction. We don’t feed it. We save screenshots in case it turns into harassment. And we focus on the part that actually matters.”
“The eviction,” she whispered.
I nodded. “The Tuesday.”
She stared at the coffee like it might answer for her.
Then she whispered, “I did everything right.”
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