Skip to content We picked it weeks earlier, after my grandfather—the man who helped raise me after my father disappeared from our lives.
James had loved it.
He had repeated it across the kitchen table.
“Owen.”
Like he was testing how it sounded.
Like he was making a promise.
And now, suddenly, he wanted me to leave the name line blank.
I reached for my phone.
My hands were still shaking from labor.
I dropped it once against the blanket before finally finding James’s contact.
I called.
Four rings.
Voicemail.
“James, where are you? Please call me.”
I tried again.
Nothing.
Then again.
Still nothing.
By the fourth call, I stopped leaving messages.
A soft knock came from the door.
Nurse Maeve stepped inside carrying paperwork.
“Whenever you’re ready, we can get the baby’s information filled in. No rush.”
I looked at the clipboard.
“My husband stepped out. Can we wait a little?”
She gave me a curious look but nodded.
“Of course.”
She left the forms on the tray and walked away.
The blank line for the baby’s name seemed suddenly enormous.
About ten minutes later, my mother rushed into the room carrying yellow tulips.
“Olivia! Oh my God, look at him!”
She kissed my forehead.
Then Owen’s head.
Then me again.
Her mascara was already smudged.
“Where’s James? I want to congratulate him.”
My stomach tightened.
“He stepped out.”
Mom frowned.
“Stepped out where?”
“I don’t know.”
She stopped smiling.