At thirty-nine weeks, Ivy decided she was done waiting.

Maya got me through the doors of St. Anne's at a little after eight, half carrying me, her car keys still hooked on one finger. By the time they had me in a gown and hooked to the monitor, the contractions were coming every four minutes. Each one bent me in half.

I gripped the bed rail and watched the line on the screen climb into a jagged peak, then sink again.

Then I called Lucas.

Voicemail.

I called again. And again. Six times, and every one of them rang out to his recorded voice telling me to leave a message.

I knew exactly where he was. Claire had been posting about it all week. *The Victoria Legacy Foundation Launch Gala. Tonight we honor her light.* Black tie. A string quartet. A slideshow, probably the same one.

"He'll pick up," Maya said, though she didn't sound like she believed it.

My phone finally buzzed on the tray table. I grabbed it so fast I almost knocked over the water cup.

*Lucas: Claire's really unstable tonight. I need to stay until she gets through her speech.*

I stared at the screen while another contraction built low in my back. When it eased, I hit call one more time. He answered on the seventh try, music and clinking glasses behind him.

"Lucas, our daughter is coming," I said. "Please come to the hospital."

"Em, I told you, tonight's not good." He lowered his voice like I was embarrassing him. "Claire needs me tonight. You have doctors. You'll be fine."

The line went dead.

I looked at the clock above the door. 9:17. The second hand jerked forward, steady and indifferent.

I'd sat alone in an exam room like this once before. Our twenty-eight-week appointment, the glucose test, the one where they'd checked her heart. He'd promised he'd be there. Then Victoria called, overwhelmed by boxes and a broken moving truck, and he'd texted me from her new apartment. *Sorry. She really needed help.*

I'd told myself then that it was a one-time thing.

A nurse with a gray braid came in to check my numbers. She glanced at the empty chair by the window.

"Is your husband on his way, honey?"

I shook my head. My hospital bracelet was soaked through with sweat, the plastic sticking to my wrist.

She didn't ask again. She just squeezed my shoulder and turned the monitor so I could see Ivy's heartbeat, fast and strong.

---

At 3:42 in the morning, after a C-section, I heard my daughter cry for the first time.

It was furious and thin and the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard. The nurse laid her on my chest, warm and slippery, a tiny striped cap already tugged over her head.

My hand shook as I touched her cheek. It was so soft I barely felt it.

She opened one fist and closed it around my finger. She held on hard, like she was checking that I was real and that I wasn't going anywhere.

"Hi," I whispered. I bent until my lips almost touched her ear. "Hi, Ivy. It's me. I've got you."

Maya was crying openly. She held up her phone. "Look up, Em. Just for a second."

I did. She took the picture, and later she showed it to me. Me, sweaty and wrecked and smiling. Ivy, red-faced and tucked under my chin. Nobody else in the frame.

There was no one else.

I watched Ivy until her grip loosened and her breathing went slow and even against my skin.

The door opened just after five.

Lucas stood there in his black suit, his tie loosened. A white rose was still pinned to his lapel, the petals going brown at the edges.

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't even look at the baby. His eyes went straight to the clipboard hanging at the foot of the bed.

"Her name is Ivy," I said.

"We'll discuss the name later." He was already lifting the folder off its hook. "Where's the paperwork?"

Maya stood up. "Seriously? You just got here."

He ignored her. He flipped through the pages until he found the birth registration worksheet, the draft the nurse had left for me to fill out once I'd slept. The box for the baby's name was still blank.

He pulled a black pen from his jacket and clicked it.

"Lucas," I said. "Don't."

He wrote without looking up. Then he hung the folder back on the rail, facing me, as if he wanted to make sure I saw it.

*Victoria Winter Reed.*

Winter. Victoria's last name. He hadn't just given our daughter her name. He'd given her all of her.

I leaned forward, wincing, and reached for the folder. He put his palm flat on the paper and held it down.

"This is my decision," he said.

"Your decision." My voice came out rough. "She's two hours old, Lucas. She's two hours old, and you want her carrying around the weight of how much you miss another woman?"

He looked at me for a long moment, and his face didn't soften at all.

"Why are you so jealous of a dead woman?" he said. "Victoria is gone. This is all I have left of her."

Across the room, in the clear plastic bassinet, the little name card the nurses had taped on was still blank. *Baby Girl.* Waiting.

Something in me went very quiet, the way a house goes quiet after the power cuts out.

Ivy shifted against my chest. I put my hand on her back.

"She's not all you have left of Victoria," I said. "She's all you have, period. And you haven't even looked at her."

He didn't answer that.

I pressed the call button. When the nurse with the braid came in, I didn't take my eyes off him.

"I need a new copy of the birth registration form. This one has an error."

"There's no error," Lucas said.

The nurse looked between us. "I can print another one."

"Please," I said.

He waited until she'd stepped out, then dragged a hand down his face. "Emma, you're the mother. Fine. But I'm her father. I have just as much right to name her as you do. More, honestly, after everything you've put my family through."

"Everything I've put your family through?"

He pulled out his phone, tapped twice, and turned the screen toward me.

Claire's page. Posted minutes ago.

A photo of Ivy, taken through the nursery glass, her face scrunched and pink. Beside it, stitched together in a soft white border, was Victoria's portrait. The caption underneath read: *Welcome to the world, Victoria Winter Reed. Her light lives on.* Three hundred likes. Comments full of hearts and crying faces.

I hadn't even known anyone had taken a picture of her.

My fingers closed around the phone so hard I left smudged prints across the screen.

"Delete it," I said. "Tell her to take it down. Right now."

"I'm not doing that."

"That's my daughter's face, Lucas. Next to a funeral photo."

He took the phone back and slid it into his pocket. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, almost reasonable, which was worse.

"If you refuse to name her Victoria, don't expect me to acknowledge her as my daughter."

For a second, I couldn't hear anything. Not the monitor. Not the hallway. Nothing.

"You would abandon your own child," I said slowly, "over a name?"

A soft knock. A woman in a navy cardigan stood in the doorway with a lanyard and a tablet, the hospital's birth registrar. She took one look at us and stopped where she was, waiting.

I pulled Ivy's pink-and-white swaddle tighter, drawing her closer against me.

Lucas didn't answer my question.

He lifted the old worksheet out of the folder, the one with *Victoria Winter Reed* in his handwriting, now creased down the middle where his palm had pressed it. He laid it on the tray table in front of me.

Then he took the pen and pushed it into my hand.

"Sign it, Emma. Or you can forget about having a husband."

I looked down at my daughter.

She was asleep on my chest, her tiny breaths warm through my gown, her fist still curled where my finger had been.

I set the pen back down on the table.