Anger rose through the grief.
“And you didn’t tell me.”
I pressed both hands over my belly.
“I was your wife, Mark. You didn’t have to protect me from everything.”
It was the first time I had been angry with him since he died.
The anger frightened me.
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.”
