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.
Mark watched silently.
Then he laid his hand over the movement.
“If they can use anything after I’m gone,” he said quietly, “I want to be a donor.”
I turned toward him sharply.
“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking.”
“That’s exactly why I have to talk about it.”
“Mark.”
His thumb moved slowly across my stomach.
“If I’m not going to get the time I wanted with her, maybe someone else can get more time with their family.”
I looked away.
“Don’t make this sound beautiful.”
He said nothing.
“I’m already angry enough,” I whispered.
His eyes found mine.
“I’m scared too, Sal.”
That nearly broke me.
Mark had always been the one who made impossible things sound manageable.
There was always a joke. A plan. A hand on my back.
