The name arrived on a Sunday morning in late March, the way most important things in that house seemed to arrive quietly, without ceremony, and already half-decided.
Ethan was sitting on the floor of the nursery with his back against the low armchair, the baby balanced in the V of his legs. She was practicing the serious business of holding her own head up.
Every successful second was celebrated with a wide, toothless grin that made her entire face fold into delight. Every failure made her scowl as if the laws of gravity had personally offended her.
Sarah stood in the doorway with two mugs of tea.
"We've been calling her 'she' long enough," she said. "It feels rude at this point."
Ethan glanced up. "You've decided?"
Sarah came in, set his mug on the low table within reach, and sat on the edge of the armchair behind him. "We think so. Richard and I talked last night."
