Chapter 1: What Dr. Holloway Carried
“Bridget, wait!” I kept walking. If I stopped, somebody would say Miles’s name again. Somebody would touch my arm and give me that careful, practiced look people used whenever they genuinely didn’t know what to say to a woman eight months pregnant, whose husband had just died. “Bridget, please.”
I turned around. Dr. Holloway was hurrying toward me, holding a plain envelope in his hand. “Miles gave me this three weeks ago.” I stared at it. “What is it?” “There’s something he made me promise not to give you, until right now.” My stomach tightened. “Why?” Dr. Holloway looked genuinely tired. “He said you’d understand it, once you actually needed it.”
It was infuriatingly vague, which was entirely, classically Miles. I took the envelope from him. My own name sat written across the front, in his messy handwriting. Bridget. That was all it said. Dr. Holloway hesitated a beat longer. “He also told me you didn’t have to open it today, if you weren’t ready.” I very nearly laughed. “That’s genuinely generous of him.” He gave me a sad, tired smile. Then I walked away, carrying the very last secret my husband had kept from me.
Two months earlier, secrets genuinely hadn’t been part of our marriage at all. Baby names were, though. “Absolutely not,” I’d told Miles firmly. “You rejected it too fast,” he protested. “You suggested Marigold.” We were sitting together on our own porch, his hand resting gently against my six-month belly. “It’s a genuinely strong name,” he insisted. “It’s a flower, Miles.” He laughed at that, and even then, the sound caught slightly in his own chest. “Fine. Adeline, then.”
I looked at him. “Adeline?” “My grandmother used to sing that particular song with the name tucked inside it.” “You always said she sang absolutely everything badly.” “Still genuinely counts, though.” “That’s not remotely a real reason to name an actual human being.” “It made you smile just now.” “Adeline,” I said quietly, testing the word. The baby kicked hard beneath his open palm. Miles’s eyebrows lifted. “See? She just voted.” “She kicked you, Miles.” “Strong approval, clearly.” I covered his hand with my own. “Adeline.” This time, it genuinely sounded like our daughter’s own name. We’d wanted her for years already.
