The baby kicked beneath his hand.
I covered his hand with mine.
“Cecelia.”
This time, it sounded like our daughter’s name.
We’d wanted her for years.
Then, six months into my pregnancy, Mark got sick.
We’d wanted her for years.
The doctors gave him no more than three months. He probably wouldn’t live long enough to meet her.
***
One evening, we sat on the porch again while Cecelia kicked hard enough to make my shirt move.
Mark watched the spot for a few seconds, then rested his hand over it.
“If they can use anything when the time comes, I want to donate.”
I turned toward him.
The doctors gave him no more than three months.
“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking.”
“That’s exactly why I have to, sweetheart.”
“Mark.”
His thumb moved slowly across my stomach.
“If I can’t watch her grow up, maybe somebody else gets more time with their family.”
“Don’t make dying sound noble. I’m already angry enough.”
“That’s exactly why I have to, sweetheart.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“I’m scared too, Sal.”
“I don’t know how to do this without you, Mark.”
“You don’t have to know yet.”
“What if I never know?”
He was quiet for a moment.
“I’m scared too, Sal.”
“Then you’ll make it up as you go.”
I looked away.
“That’s a terrible plan.”
“It’s the only honest one I’ve got.”
I hated that answer.
“Then you’ll make it up as you go.”
***
By my eighth month, Mark had gotten weaker much faster than we’d expected.
One morning, I found him standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fighting with the buttons on his shirt.
“Give me that.”
“I’ve got it, Sally.”
