“You didn’t even consider it.”
“I considered it long enough to know we are not naming our daughter Clementine.”
We were sitting on the porch, my feet swollen, my six-month belly round beneath Mark’s hand.
“It’s a strong name,” he insisted.
“It’s a fruit.”
“It’s also a person’s name.”
“It’s mostly a fruit.”
He laughed.
Even then, there had been something fragile hidden in the sound. A faint catch in his chest that I had trained myself not to notice every time he smiled.
“Fine,” he said. “What about Cecelia?”
I turned toward him.
“Cecelia?”
“My grandmother used to sing that song with the name in it.”
“You told me your grandmother couldn’t carry a tune.”
“She couldn’t.”
“So that’s your argument?”
“It made you smile.”
I tried not to.
He won anyway.
“Cecelia,” I repeated.
At that exact moment, the baby kicked under his palm.
