It was an idle weekend morning, and I was puttering around the kitchen. Everything suggested domestic tranquility: husband and son laughing softly at the table, daughters playing quietly at the counter, puppy peaceably destroying a cloth. In fact, I was like a “Looney Tunes” character that is about to be hit by an anvil and has no idea what’s coming. “Oh, awful,” said my husband, recoiling.

“I know, right?” said my son. He came over to me and held out a cell phone — mine, as it happened.