"Here you go, Mister Branson," said Mrs. Rose, the nurse that they had managed to find on such short notice. She held out the baby to Tom. He was dimly aware of being surprised at how steady his hands were; he had been feeling weak and shaky since… since it happened. He took his daughter in his arms, trying to remember if he had ever held anything so small or so delicate before in his whole life. Tears filled his eyes. He had thought he had reached the point where he couldn't cry anymore, but these were a different sort of tears. It was a bittersweet feeling.

"Hello, m'darling," Tom whispered to her. She blinked up at him and he managed to smile. In the midst of the grief that had engulfed him, he had almost forgotten how it felt to look at her. He peered intently into her face, as if trying to memorize her every feature. The baby, his daughter— he had a daughter!— looked so much like… so much like her. But he could also see bits of his own face in hers as well. It hit him all over again: he was a father. "You're going to need a name," he added after a moment. He thought back on the list of girls' names that he and… Sybil… had discussed. But Sybil hadn't been particularly fond of any of them. And none of those names seemed to fit their daughter anyway.

Tom turned away from Mrs. Rose. He started walking towards the window so that sunlight could reach the baby's face and she would know that there was more to this life then the smothering grief trapped inside these extravagant walls.

He looked outside. It seemed as if it were only yesterday he looked through a window and noticed a beautiful, vibrant young woman proudly showing off her new harem pants to her scandalized family. Was that the moment he fell in love with her? He wasn't sure. But he had realized how much he admired her that day and how much he wanted to know her. He remembered thinking that their worlds would never touch and with the exception of a brief discussion on women's rights, that their interactions would never go beyond "Branson, bring the car around!" and "Where to, my lady?"

That must have been seven or eight years ago now. Where did the time go?

Tom looked down at his daughter, deciding within an instant that he would call her Sybil, too. It would be painful, of course. But… it would be the right thing to do. Boys were named after their late fathers all the time. Why shouldn't Sybil be honored in the same manor?

However, Tom also had another reason for why he wanted to name his daughter after her mother.

He couldn't stop thinking about the children of widowers that he had grown up with. Children who had known nothing about their mothers. He thought of husbands who had never uttered their wives' names again in vain attempts to forget what they lost. Tom could understand the reasoning behind it. He'd be lying if he said there wasn't a small part of him, one that was struck half mad with heartache, that wasn't tempted by it. It would be easier on him to at least try to block out Sybil from his mind; it might help dull the pain, though never eradicate it.

But he didn't want to forget her. He wanted to remember every single moment, even those that had not been particularly happy. Not to mention the fact that this little girl must know all about her mother, because how else would she grow to be just a kind and clever and determined? Tom felt quite sure that if he named his daughter after Sybil, he would stop associating his wife with death and loss and one day remember love and joy.

And when she was old enough? Tom would be able tell his daughter every detail about Sybil's incredible life. Of course he would. He'd tell his daughter about her mother's political aspirations, her work as a nurse, and her generous spirit. And he'd be able to tell her these things without it hurting too badly because he would be able to remember Sybil and see life: Their daughter's life, the life that he and Sybil had created together.

He thanked God for her, this little miracle. She was all he had left. He had lost so much: his job, his home, his country, his wife. But he still had her, this beautiful baby girl…

And as long as she lived, so would part of Sybil.

A/N: I wrote this awhile ago after I saw someone complain that Tom would have remembered Sybil no matter what he called their daughter. I think it's more about remembering Sybil and thinking about what was gained rather than lost and focusing on life rather than death.

Now if you don't mind me, I'm going back to my little world where Sybil's still alive and off in Ireland being awesome.