This morning I was so eager to kiss Julia’s fat pink cheeks, I couldn’t even wait for her to wake up. As I smooched her, she grinned in her sleep.

I haven’t written much about her, essentially because happiness writes white. She is heaven. She cries rarely, and only for clear and well-supported reasons. Mostly she smiles and giggles, or sleeps beatifically. Her hair is a cloud of spun gold. Her blue eyes have dark edges, like Hoag’s object. She tolerates Claire with admirable fortitude. She adores the cat. When Bebe jumps on my lap, Julia does whole-body-wiggles and laughs with incredulous joy. She grabs handfuls of fur in her fat fists, and pulls them out.

Get this: Bebe purrs.

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