Everything in the hospital was in shades of white and green; a sterile sort of look, but this baby made it all come into color.

“Mrs. Emmerich?â€? The doctor’s voice seemed far away.
“Your other daughter is here to see the baby.â€?

“What’s her name, Mommy?â€? Her four year old voice was so innocent, like the chimes of a bell. I reached down and stroked her curls. “Well, I don’t know, hun,â€? I told her.

“You should call her Paige,â€? she told me. “After my dolly. I brought her for you.â€? Clutched in her sticky fingers was that stupid doll, given to her by my mother.
I didn’t want a daughter named Paige. I didn’t want to have a girl who was bound by name to do the bidding of others…

“Knock knock, Mommy!â€?
“Who’s there?â€? I indulged her.
“Paige!â€?
“Paige who?â€?
“Paige Turner!â€?

And in that flash, I remembered the other meaning of the word. Paige. She would be a girl with blank pages spread before her at every turn.
She would be a girl who could write her own story. A girl who could do anything.