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Sputtering, trying to catch her breath, Zora shook her head.

“Why are you crying?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s okay, you can tell me.”

“Nothing.”

Armand gave a handkerchief to his son, who used it to wipe Zora’s face and have her blow her nose.

Florence, her older sister, had come over and was hovering in the background.

“It’s the other kids,” Florence said.

“Is not,” muttered Zora.

“What about them?” asked Daniel.

“They make fun of her.”

“Do not.”

“Why?”

“Because of her name.”

Now her little sister was quiet, though her face had again crumpled, and she was on the verge of tears.

“They say it’s weird. That she’s weird.”

“I hate it,” said Zora. “I hate my name, and I hate them.”

“Has anyone told you about your name?” her grandfather asked. “Where it comes from?”

“Grand-mère,” she muttered. “Or something.”

Armand knelt down now. “Your great-grandmother, yes.” He looked at the other kids, staring, then at Daniel. “Can we all go for a walk?”

Daniel nodded and put out his hand for his daughter to hold, while Reine-Marie took Florence’s.

As they strolled through the park, Armand told Zora all about Zora. Leaving out the worst bits, the nightmare parts, time enough for that later. He told her how brave her namesake was. And how loved. How funny and kind. And strong.

“Zora is a beautiful name,” said Reine-Marie. “It means ‘dawn.’ Every name means something special.”

“What does my name mean?” asked Florence.

“It means ‘to flower,’” said Daniel. “‘To blossom.’ And to blossom, you know what you need?”

“Candy?”

Her father laughed. “Non. Flowers need the sun.” He looked over at Zora. Florence followed his gaze and nodded. But said nothing.

“And maybe,” Daniel said to both his girls, “some ice cream. But first”—he leaned toward them—“a horse kiss.”

At that, they shrieked and ran away, laughing.

Armand watched his son be a father, and smiled. Yes, it was far more important he be a great father than a good son. Hanging back, he joined Jean-Guy. “We need to talk.”