Only two months earlier, secrets had been the last thing on my mind.
Back then, Mark and I had been arguing about baby names.
“Absolutely not,” I told him.
“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.
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.”
