Julia

You don’t have children of your own, but you love children who are not your own. You take Julia for a walk and in half a mile your pockets are loaded with gravel, flowers that wilt right after they’re picked, an unripe apple, and a discarded popsicle wrapper which she insists on using later for a craft (not with you because the two of you have an understanding that you don’t craft).

“Betsy, look!” she says about everything. Your enthusiasm doesn’t quite match hers and your pockets are already full.

She says it again, “Looook!”

You get it the second time. She’s not actually telling you to look. She’s telling you to see.