Sometimes I joke, ‘she’s so immature,’ as if maturity is the goal. She’s seven, but not the seven I was — minutes that vanish like seconds, tucked between talk of crushes, lip gloss, and the length of her hem. Time is slippery. Lee and I remind each other, ‘she’s just a kid,’ though her world is not the woods-and-dirt childhood we imagine. Mostly it feels like she skipped a step, fast-tracking to tween. Then a small moment appears, sudden and bright, and I see she still just wants to be a kid.