“Both our tempers,” I correct her. “Don’t think you’re innocent in this,Lisichka.”
“So, I just need to put down a name for her,” Dr. Atlee says. “And then you guys should be good to go on checking out.”
A name…
I was so sure that I would have a son that I only ever gave a single passing thought to what we should name our daughter. She needs a name that shows she’s strong, brave, and not afraid to fight for what she believes in. I look at Liya and exchange a knowing look with her.
There’s only one name that our daughter could ever have. Because that’s the only name that conveys all of the qualities we want her to grow up with.
“Viktoria,” I tell Dr. Atlee without hesitation.
“Viktoria.” Dr. Atlee nods and begins writing. “Is that with a K or a C?”
“With a K,” Liya says before I can.
“Very well.” Dr. Atlee nods. “And will there be a middle name?”
Liya and I look at each other. Neither of us considered a middle name. Russians don’t have middle names. We’re named after our fathers. By those standards, little Viktoria should have the name of Viktoria Pavlovna Suvorov. But somehow, that doesn’t feel right.
But what name can possibly fit our daughter? A name that tells the world she deserves to be loved and protected? A name that conveys just how precious she is to us?
I look over at Liya once more, and I see her brows furrowed in thought. She has a name in mind. I know it.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Zoya.”
I look at her in surprise. That’s not a name that I had considered. Liya returns my gaze and takes my hand. I know she’s searching my eyes for pushback, for me to say no. But I don’t.
Because it’s the perfect name. I nod at Dr. Atlee. “Yes, Zoya.”
Dr. Atlee is all smiles. “That’s a wonderful name. Viktoria Zoya Suvorov. Born at 3:00 a.m. on March 23. Okay, I just need to collect your signatures here, and you guys should be good to go.”
I look down at Viktoria, and my heart melts when she opens her eyes. They’re amber, like her mother’s eyes, and what looks like a slight smile curves up on her face when she catches sight of me.
I hold her close to me, dreaming of all the things I will experience with her—everything from her first steps, her first bedtime story, her first bike ride, her first crush, her first heartbreak, to the inevitable moment when I must walk her down the aisle to her husband.
Like an endless picture album, each image flits through my mind until it all blurs together. The dream of a lifetime in the palm of my hand. Hands that will shape and build rather than tear down and destroy.
My vision blurs at the dream, and I blink away the tears of future promises.
She will not live as I lived. She will be cherished. Worshipped. And above all else, loved.
“Hello, my littlekrolik,” I whisper, sliding closer to Liya so both of us can look at our perfect daughter together. “Welcome to the family.”
THE END