A few months ago I was out at a fancy ice cream place with my eight-year-old daughter. She got chocolate chip, and on a lark I asked for a taste of tarragon and pink peppercorn. It was delicious, and I wound up buying a cup.

I offered her a taste. She declined. I thought she’d really like it, and I thought she’d be chuffed to have tried such a weird flavor, so I offered again. She declined again. “Just one taste,” I said.

“No,” she said. “My body, my choice.”

I’ve used that phrase with her and her sister since they were toddlers, trying to drum it into them. Don’t want to hug your grandma? Don’t want your sister tickling you? Don’t want to wear the mask from your Halloween costume when you trick-or-treat? Your body, your choice.

But this was the first time she’d used it on me. She was right. And I apologized.

Her body, her choice. Period.