Not cool laughter. Not composed laughter. The kind that breaks out of you when your heart suddenly grows three sizes and forgets how to behave.
“Hello,” I say to her, voice wrecked. “Hello, my girl.”
Christa looks at me, exhausted and glowing and utterly real.
“She’s perfect,” she murmurs.
“She is,” I agree. “And she looks like she’s already judging me.”
Our daughter lets out another indignant yell, face scrunched like she’s already dissatisfied with the world.
I kiss Christa’s forehead. Then the top of our daughter’s head. Then Christa again because I can’t quite believe either of them are here and staying.
“I love you,” I tell Christa. “Both of you. More than anything I ever thought I was capable of.”
She smiles. Soft. Certain.
“Told you we can do this,” she says faintly.
I laugh again, pressing my hand over hers, over our daughter, grounding myself in the weight of them.
Christa exhales, long and slow, like she’s finally come back into her body.
“I know her name,” she says.
That stops me dead.
“You do?” I say carefully.
She nods. “I do.”
Relief crashes through me so hard it’s almost physical. Because, for the last twelve weeks, we have discussed approximately every name ever recorded by humanity and rejected all of them with impressive efficiency.
There were the sensible ones. Too sensible. The trendy ones. Absolutely not. Anything that sounded like a future estate agent was immediately binned. Anything that sounded like a medieval plague victim met the same fate.
At one point we even considered Lucy’s suggested Rainbow Unicorn and, due to exhaustion and fear, it was briefly not a hard no.
I had concerns.
“So,” I say, voice low, reverent, terrified. “You’re sure?”
Christa smiles. Tired. Certain. Glowing in that way that feels unfair to the rest of us.
“Yes.”
I nod, swallowing. “Okay.”
She looks down at our daughter, then back up at me, eyes bright despite everything.
“Elizabeth,” she says.
I don’t respond straight away. Not because I don’t like it. Because I feel it land somewhere deep and heavy and unexpectedly emotional.
I clear my throat. “Elizabeth,” I repeat.
She nods. “Elizabeth.”
I smile, then hesitate, because I’m still me and my brain insists on asking practical questions even when my heart is doing backflips.
