“You’re spoiling her already,” I told her, watching her fold a tiny pair of socks.
“That’s my job,” she said. “That’s what grandmothers are for.”
We picked the name together, the three of us, sitting around my kitchen table with a book of baby names and a plate of lemon bars.
“What about Evelyn?” Ben said.
Diane put down her lemon bar.
“That was my mother’s name,” she said softly.
“I know, Mom.”
Diane’s eyes filled up. She looked at me. “Only if you like it, Claire. Don’t let him push you.”
I said it out loud. “Evelyn.” I tried it again. “Evie.”
It felt right. It felt like her.
“Evelyn,” I said. “She’s Evelyn.”
Diane got up and hugged me so hard my back cracked.
That was the family I had. That was the family I thought I had. A husband who cried at heartbeats. A mother-in-law who knitted blankets and named my daughter after her own mother.
