“I’m not a baby, I know my toys are not having a party.”

“But they have feelings. You told me they get lonely. If they get lonely, they can just as easily be happy.”

She humphed. “Being happy is not as easy as being sad. That’s what my maman used to tell me. She said she tried very hard to be happy all the time, but sometimes it was too difficult.”

God. My chest ached. I really needed to know what had happened to her mother. “It’s true that some people have a harder time being happy than others,” I said carefully, reaching for her toothbrush. “Just like some people get headaches more than other people.”

She took the toothbrush from my hand and added toothpaste.

“I’m going to count to sixty. You have to brush your teeth for that long.”

Her head tilted. “Pourquoi?”

“Because that’s how long it takes not to miss any of your teeth and get all the germs out. You need to brush them all. Otherwise one tooth might feel like you don’t like him as much.”

Her eyes sparkled in amusement and she tucked the brush in her mouth.

“One, two, three, four …” I began. By thirty, she was spitting and sighing in annoyance. I laughed. “Continue.”

She rolled her eyes, but when she was finished and rinsed and had done her business while I turned down her bed, she was humming. Running and leaping, she landed square in the middle of the bed.

“Okay, time for introductions. Who is this?” I asked, picking up a lanky brown monkey.

“Mon Chi Chi.”

“Mon Chi Chi?” I asked, looking the monkey in the eyes. Then I shook its limp arm. “Enchantée,” I said, remembering the French greeting.

Dauphine giggled. “This is Pépé, Arnaud, Céleste, and Babar.” She presented them to me one by one until we’d gone through about twenty toys from monkeys to mermaids and an entire elephant family. Finally, she got to the last one. A bear with blue peacoat, a red hat, and Wellington boots.

“I know this character,” I said. “It’s Paddington. How do you do, Paddington? Who gave you this one?” I asked her.

“Evan. Il est beau, non?”

“Very handsome,” I agreed, so grateful that my high school French had started coming back to me for these little phrases here and there.

“I love the coat,” she said. “It is very … stylish? I wish I have more clothes for him.”

“No Barbies? You can dress those.”

Her nose turned up. “No. I do not like.” Then she let out a big yawn.

I’d have loved to discuss our mutual dislike of Barbies, but it was getting late. I patted the pillow behind her, encouraging her to scoot down. She complied, grabbing Paddington, and I tucked the fluffy duvet around her. The boat rocked ever so gently, the waves tiny in the protected port. She yawned again.