36

Santiago

"Have you thought of a name for her yet?" Katie asks.

I look up at the nurse watching me from the doorway. She's been here every step of the way, keeping me updated on Ivy and helping me process each milestone of my daughter's transition from the womb to the incubator to the real world.

My daughter's tiny fingers curl inside mine as I cradle her against my bare chest. Something I’ve admittedly come to look forward to every day. They tell me she's doing well, and every day seems to be a new learning curve. So far, I’ve accomplished feeding her and changing her diapers, though I still feel as if I'm fumbling through the process every time.

She hasn't been allowed to meet any of the other family just yet, but they've been able to see her through the window of a special visiting room, offering smiles and waves with tears in their eyes.

Ivy is still in the ICU, still asleep. Unchanging, even as my world is changing every second. She should be here for this. She should be holding our baby's hand too. Stroking her hair and laughing at how terribly I fail when I try to bottle-feed her, or as I’m trying to ascertain which part of the diaper is back and which is front.

It's all so overwhelming and painful. And it's all I can do to focus on each moment rather than the large picture in front of me. The one where the dark reality is, I might not ever get to see Ivy with our baby.

"I don't want to pick a name until her mother wakes up," I confess quietly.

Katie offers me a sad smile, leaning against the doorframe. "I get it. But at some point, that little beauty will need a name. Maybe you can think of something you would both like. Her mother's middle name, perhaps."

"Perhaps." I shrug noncommittally.

Agreeing means admitting that Ivy won't ever be able to help me choose, and I don't think I can ever accept that.

Katie slips away quietly, leaving me alone with my daughter. Her eyes are less cloudy now, and when she looks up at me, there is a fascination in her features as her gaze moves over my face. I was so convinced she would be terrified, but all I see is wonder. I understand that because I feel it, too, whenever I look at her.

So small. So fragile. The tiniest fingers and toes. Skin softer than I even knew was possible. It seems like everything is a threat to her, and I am already dreading how I will manage to protect her from the overwhelming dangers of this world.

"You are beautiful," I whisper to her. "Just like your mother. I think you will meet her one day soon. Let us hope."