One day I’m talking with Avery, now fifteen, about the other names we might have given her.
“You shoulda named me Marin.”
“That was on Dad’s list. I didn’t really like it.”
“Well, I like it.”
“Well, looking back I kinda think maybe I shoulda named you Silvey.”
She pauses. And then, “I’ll name my own daughter Silvey, Mom.”
I know it’s my job as her mom not to cry.