It also felt necessary.
Because grief had been turning Mark into something flawless.
And the truth was, he had still been my husband.
Stubborn.
Protective.
Occasionally infuriating.
Even at the end.
Two days later, Violet came over carrying an embroidered baby blanket.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Cecelia should carry Mark’s name somehow.”
I stared at her.
“We already chose her name.”
“She should have something from her father.”
“She has a father. She doesn’t need his name attached to hers to prove that.”
Violet looked toward my stomach.
“Mark told me he was reconsidering.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“You weren’t part of every conversation between us.”
“And you weren’t part of every conversation between Mark and me.”
Her expression sharpened.
“He kept things from you too.”
That hurt.
Because it was true.
But truth used as a weapon was still a weapon.
“Mark and I chose Cecelia’s name together.”
