Chapter 14 - A Name for Our Daughter
When I reached the NICU in a wheelchair, a nurse was supporting our baby's breathing. Daniel stood beside the incubator, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
"What happened?" I asked.
Dr. Patel, the neonatologist, met my eyes. "She had an episode where she briefly stopped breathing. That can happen in very premature babies. She's responding to our treatment, and we're watching her closely."
I pressed a hand over my mouth. The last time I'd seen that kind of alarm, strangers had been wheeling me toward surgery.
A nurse named Tessa brought my chair closer. "You can touch her foot gently," she said. "She's been hearing your voice."
I slipped one finger through the incubator opening. My daughter's foot was smaller than my thumb. But when I spoke, she flexed her toes.
"Hey, little one," I whispered. "It's me. I'm sorry I couldn't get to you sooner."
Daniel knelt beside my chair. "You got to her. You kept fighting."
"I couldn't even reach my phone."
"And you're here anyway."
We stayed by the incubator until the monitors settled into a rhythm the staff were comfortable with. There were no promises about when she could go home. There was only the next breath, and then another.
"We need to call her something," Daniel said.
I'd been afraid to choose a name, as though naming her would tempt fate. But I was tired of fear deciding things for us.
"Sofia," I said. "My grandmother's name. She always said courage can be quiet."
Daniel touched the plastic wall of the incubator. "Hi, Sofia. I'm your dad."
For the first time since the bedroom, I felt something besides terror: a stubborn, unreasonable hope.
May you like
Then Daniel's phone lit up with a voicemail from Ruth.
"You think your father was a saint," she said. "Ask Nina why he wouldn't let Victor touch that land while he was alive."
