by Claire Allan
The name Maggie seemed perfect. I had no idea where it had come from. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of names before, but as soon as I saw all 6lbs and 9oz of my child, a tuft of dark hair and her face set in a determined little stare, I knew that no other name would suit the same.
No doubt Jake would have wanted something a bit more “out there”. He would laugh and tell me that Maggie was “so suburban”, “so bland”, so “predictable”. He could go and scratch himself. I was going to have a big enough problem selling this one to the folks back home without announcing the arrival of baby “Aisha” or “Bluebell”. Nope, Maggie was just fine. Absolutely perfect.
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