Mark’s eyebrows rose.
“You felt that?”
“She kicked you.”
“She approved.”
“That was not approval.”
“Strong approval.”
I placed my hand over his.
“Cecelia.”
This time, the name sounded different.
Not like a suggestion.
Like our daughter.
We had waited years for her.
Then, six months into the pregnancy we had wanted so badly, Mark got sick.
The doctors told us he might have three months.
Maybe less.
There was a very real chance he would never hold the little girl whose name we had finally chosen.
And suddenly, every ordinary moment became something I was terrified of losing.
Part 2: His Final Choice
A few weeks later, we were back on the porch.
Cecelia was kicking hard enough to make the fabric of my shirt jump.
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Mark watched silently.
Then he laid his hand over the movement.
