The phone message lasted all of 1 minute, 13 seconds. The caller didn’t leave her name or contact information, which is fine — it was her dime, after all — but the message was clear.

I had done something wrong; or, at least, something with which she disagreed quite strongly.

Maybe “wrong” is not quite the proper word. What was?

“Stupid.” Yes, stupid, that’s it. I was responsible for something that she considered stupid.

How stupid?

“Really stupid,” she said, unsuccessfully stifling a laugh.

“Really, really stupid.”

My immediate thought, given how she had felt the need to double-up on the “really” to inform me of the level of my stupidity, was:

“How did my mother get my work number?”

That concern passed quickly, though, when I remembered two things: First, that my mother always began her phone messages with, “Robert, this is your mother” (just to rub it in); and, secondly, as far as I knew it has been 17 years since she departed this Earth.

This led to a theoretical, theological thought over whether there are phones in the afterlife. If so, I’m guessing you wouldn’t need to tuck a dime in your penny loafers should events merit you making a call — which is a good thing, considering how long it’s been since dropping a dime actually cost 10 cents.

And, of course, whether you could find a pay phone.

Criticism used to be an art form. My mother (both my parents, really) would have their finest work on display in the Louvre if that were so. It took talent to land decisive blows while alternating between direct assault and sneak attack.

If you are in this racket, you’re used to the slings and arrows that come your way, even if what comes trippingly on the tongue in these less-than-elegant times is far from Shakespearean.

The most wonderful insult hurled in my general direction came in the form of a May 2, 1985, letter from a third grader named Renee, whose class I had visited as part of a series of professionals coming to talk about their jobs.

The visit, I thought, had gone fairly painlessly — for me and the kids — and their teacher had asked her students to write me a note of thanks.

That’s when Renee stuck the knife in, and twisted:

Dear Mr. Galvin,

Thank you for coming to the school and sharing some of your experiences as a reporter. It must be fun to be a writer.

(So far, so good.)

Some times, I wanted to be a writer …

(Wow, I must have made quite the impression.)

… but now I’m not so sure.

(Yeah, apparently my conversation had infected her brain.)

I think I want to do something important in my life instead.

Sincerely, Renee

I’ve kept that letter all these years because it simply can’t be improved upon.

It made me feel like a 3-inch fool in the kindest, sweetest way possible. I doubt Renee, being all of 8 or 9, was telling me that I’d done something really stupid, or even really, really stupid.

But, on any occasion I find to read it again, I do wonder whether she grew to do something important with her now-adult life — or if she became a writer.

And, for schadenfreude’s sake, whether she has a son.