our silver girl

“We are not naming her Silver.”

I smiled, snuggling into your arms as I prepared for your daily attempt at changing the most obvious fact in the world. “It’s her name.”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s tacky. Why can’t she have a normal name?”

“There’s no such thing as a normal name anymore, and Silver’s perfect. It’s absolutely completely one hundred percent perfect.”

“But–”

“Shh. You’ll understand. When you see her you’ll understand.”

And so you were with me through the pushing and the breathing and the chaos and the first perfect wail. You kept me sane through the congratulations and the prying eyes and the perky family and the well-wishers, and then finally, finally we were alone with her and you got to hold her in your arms and you cried (just like I knew you would).

And as your tears dripped onto her face she opened her beautiful blue eyes, and you blinked. And then you looked at me suspiciously, watching the smug smile spread across my face.

You didn’t need to say it.

You did anyway.

“Silver’s perfect.”

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