We kept her.
My mother decided that Lynne would be her middle name, and allowed us to vote on the first. Rachel or Amy.
“Rachel means little lamb,” my mother said.
I sensed her nudging us toward the name, but I chose Rachel primarily on account of a girl named Amy in my class with a tiny row of rotted teeth.
As the weeks went by, my mother’s stomach pushed the limits of her clothing. Her auburn hair grew thick and curled around her face like a wild crown.
We watched, intent on the mystery of another of us growing inside her body. We watched, and life continued around us.