Then I plugged in the flash drive.
Mark appeared on the screen.
He looked thinner than I remembered.
"If you're watching this because you miss me, turn it off."
I went straight to Cecelia's nursery.
I covered my mouth.
"You don't get to boss me around."
He shifted in his chair.
"I'm serious, Sal."
"Mom asked me not to donate."
"I'm serious, Sal."
I leaned closer.
"She asked more than once. Then she asked whether the decision was really mine or yours."
My stomach dropped.
"I told her it was mine."
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"I told her it was mine."
"She can't stand the idea that strangers might get something from me after I'm gone."
He paused.
"I understand why. But grief doesn't get to turn you into the villain."
My breath caught.
"Don't protect me by letting her hurt you. And don't let Cecelia grow up thinking her father was too weak to make his own choices."
"Grief doesn't get to turn you into the villain."
I paused the video.
"You knew."
I stood.
"You knew she might do this, and you didn't tell me."
I pressed both hands against my stomach.
"You knew."
"I was your wife, Mark. You didn't have to protect me from everything."
That was the first time I'd been angry with him since he died.
It felt awful.
It also felt honest.
***
Two days later, Violet arrived carrying a small embroidered blanket.
"I've been thinking Cecelia should carry Mark's name somehow."
It felt awful.
I stared at her.
"We already chose her name."
"She should have something from her father."
"She doesn't need his name added to hers to be his daughter."
Violet's eyes flicked toward my stomach.
"Mark told me he'd changed his mind."
"We already chose her name."
"No, he didn't."
"You weren't part of every conversation we had."
"Neither were you."
"He kept things from you."
That one landed.
But it didn't make her right.
"Neither were you."
"Mark and I chose Cecelia's name together."
"Sally..."
"Go home."
She blinked.
"What?"
"You've questioned Mark's judgment. You've let people question mine. Now you're rewriting what he wanted for our daughter."
"Go home."
Her mouth trembled.
"I just lost my son."
"I know."
"You don't know what that feels like."
"No."
I stepped closer.
"I just lost my son."
"And you don't know what it feels like to lose my husband while carrying the child he'll never meet."
She went quiet.
"We can hurt differently without destroying each other."
Violet left.
***
Cecelia was born two weeks later in a quiet, uncomplicated delivery.
When they placed her against my chest, she tucked her thumb into her fist.
She went quiet.
Mark slept like that too.
"Of course you sleep like your dad."
When Violet came to meet her, she asked, "Can I hold her?"
That question mattered.
I handed Cecelia over.
Violet looked down at her.
"Can I hold her?"
"Hi, sweetheart."
Cecelia yawned.
Violet smiled through tears.
"I knew your daddy when he didn't have teeth either."
For a minute, grief stopped fighting us.
Then, a few weeks later, I heard Violet talking to Mark's aunt in my living room.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Mark wasn't himself at the end."
I stopped in the kitchen.
"Sally handled those decisions. He never would've chosen that if he'd been thinking clearly."
I walked into the room.
Violet was holding Cecelia.
"Mark wasn't himself."
"Give her to me."
