I say, "Hello, my little heart."
She’s crying. Quietly. The way she cries when she doesn’t want to interrupt a moment by being loud about her feelings. Her hand is still in my hair.
She says, "You had Greek for the baby."
I say, "I have Greek for everyone I love."
"For Nora."
"‘Agápi mou.’"
"For me."
"‘Eísai diki mou.’ ‘Agápi mou.’"
"For ‘Mitéra.’"
"‘Mitéra.’"
"And now for the baby."
"‘Kardoúla mou.’"
She’s laughing through the crying now. She says, "You had a different language ready for each member of the family before they existed."
I say, "I have been waiting my whole life to have a family I needed Greek words for."
? ? ?
We lie down. The lamp stays on. I cannot stop touching her stomach. She lets me. We talk in the low, careful way couples talk after a piece of news that is going to change everything. The due date. She had it pegged at June. The doctor. The one she’s been seeing since the morning sickness started. The names she’s been thinking about.
Then I say, "Maeve."
"Yes."
"My father."
She turns toward me. She’s been waiting fifty-eight days for me to bring my father into a conversation. I have not said his name in her presence. I have not said his name out loud in any context throughout our marriage. I have said ‘my father.’ I have said ‘my father's funeral.’ I have said ‘the morning my father died.’ I have not said ‘the name.’
I say, "His name was Stefanos."
She says, "Stefanos."
"He was named for his grandfather. His grandfather was named after his grandfather. Going back at least four generations on the paternal side that I know about. Maybe further. My mother might know."
"Stefanos Konstantinos."
"Yes."
Pause. The lamp is on. The lake is outside the window. The baby is eight weeks.
I say, "If this baby is a boy, I would like him to carry his grandfather's name."
Maeve looks at me.
She says, "Stefanos."
"Stefanos."
