“So have you decided on a name yet?”

I sat down, glad to get off my feet. I was in my eighth month and my ankles were really starting to get swollen. Speaking of my feet, man, was I due for a pedicure…

“Amelia, I asked you a question.”

“Hm? Huh? What? Hey, do you have any pickles?”

My mother sighed as she stood up and went to rummage in the fridge.

“I guess it’s as expected—I was absent-minded during all three of my pregnancies, too. Here’s the jar of pickles. Go nuts.”

I eased off the cap and pulled out the biggest pickle. My mother stood glaring at me with her arms crossed, her left foot tapping the way it did whenever she was annoyed.

“Hey, do you think my daughter would mind if I called her ‘Pickle’?” I asked, the words coming out in a mumble because my mouth was full.

“Amelia!”

I laughed when I saw her expression. OK, she’d suffered enough.

“Sofia. I’m naming my daughter Sofia. It means wisdom, and it also happens to be your name, so it means – well, it means a lot to me. “