No wonder I got soaked during the last invisible rainstorm

Her Royal Highness comes to me with her hand upraised, fingers curled around something that isn’t there.

“Dis my um-rella,” she informs me gravely.

“Oh! That’s your umbrella?” I echo, because that is what mothers are supposed to do for their two-year-olds; that is what the two-year-old expects and, indeed, demands.

But this two-year-old is looking at me like I have an umbrella where my head should be.

“No,” she says in tones of exasperation and bewilderment—how could I be so silly?—”Dis my fish.”