“That is not a reason to name a human being.”
“It made you smile, though.”
“Rosalie,” I said softly, testing it.
Under his hand, the baby kicked.
Daniel’s eyebrows shot up.
“See? She voted.”
“She kicked you.”
“Enthusiastic approval.”
I laid my hand over his.
“Rosalie.”
This time, it didn’t sound like a word. It sounded like our daughter.
We had waited years for her. Years of hoping and not saying it out loud.
Then, six months into my pregnancy, Daniel got sick.
The doctors gave him three months, maybe less. They said it gently, the way you’d set down something fragile. He probably wouldn’t live long enough to hold her.
One evening, we sat on that same porch swing while Rosalie kicked so hard my shirt rippled.
Daniel watched the spot for a long moment. Then he rested his hand over it, as if he were memorizing the feel of her.
“When the time comes,” he said, “if there’s anything they can use, I want to donate it.”
I turned to him.
“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking.”
“That’s exactly why I have to, sweetheart.”
“Daniel.”
His thumb traced slow circles across my stomach.
“If I don’t get to watch her grow up, maybe someone else gets a few more years with theirs.”
“Don’t make it sound noble. I’m already angry enough at the universe.”
He lifted his eyes to mine.
“I’m scared too, Nor.”
My voice cracked.
“I don’t know how to do any of this without you.”
