This is the last chapter before the epilogue!

…

JACKSON

It's clear that April hadn't expected those words to come from my mouth. Her expression tells me everything I need to know; she's no good at hiding her thoughts. With high brows and wide eyes, her lips part slightly as she takes a soft inhale. As she's been pregnant, the edges of her body have become rounder and I love her this way. Though it isn't the right time now, I find myself wanting to kiss her senseless.

"What?" she says, keeping her voice very quiet. "Jackson, what do you mean?"

"What I said," I clarify. "We don't have to raise our child here."

Creases appear on her forehead, showing how troubled she is. "I…" she stammers, eyebrows knitting together as her lips form a puckered bow. "I don't know what you're saying." I sit up so I can look at her face properly, leaning on one elbow as she remains on her back, hands folded over her smooth, swollen belly. Her shirt is gathered beneath her breasts, bunched from how I had manipulated it, so her skin is bare. "Where would we go?"

"Anywhere you want," I answer.

She flattens her hands now, stroking her skin for comfort. She blinks quickly, eyes darting away from mine, and bends her knees so her feet are flat on the mattress. "Jackson, you're not making sense," she says.

"What doesn't make sense?" I ask earnestly.

"We can't just leave," she responds. "I've spent my whole life in Chicago. Your whole life is here."

"The life I want is the one with you in it," I say. "For me, home is where you are. Not a specific place. I don't care where we are, as long as I have you. That's all I want."

"You can't be serious," she whispers, like she's scared of the sentiment. "You'd… you'd just up and leave all this?"

"It doesn't matter to me," I say. "You and our child matter. I never knew what it felt like to love someone more than myself until you came. And when you got pregnant, I felt it even further. I love you, sweetest, and I want the best for our family."

She pauses for a long moment, then meets my eyes. "What your mother said scared me," she says, lower lip trembling. "And she called those paparazzi. She did that to us. And she… she wants all these things for our baby that I could never imagine. Ever. I don't want them raised in the way that…" She knows what she wants to say, but cuts herself off.

I already know what she's thinking, though. "You don't want our child raised in the way that I was," I say.

"No, that's not it," she says. "I know your father was good to you. And you will be so good to our baby, I know that. I do know that, Jackson."

"I know," I say. "But we're talking about my mother."

"Yes," she agrees, almost shamefully.

"And I'm with you," I say. "I don't want her front and center in our child's life. I don't want you to feel overshadowed or like you don't have a voice. I want none of that for either of us. That's why I think we need to leave."

"Leave?" she echoes. "How can we just leave?"

"We pack our things and get on a plane," I say.

"A plane," she parrots, seemingly unable to stop. She's shocked, that's clear. "What about… this house? And everything in it?"

"I've told you, it doesn't matter to me," I say. "My mother made it clear that this house is hers to reign over. As long as we live here, she has control over us, too. I don't think that's something you want."

"No," she says.

"I don't, either," I say. "I'm ready to start a life with you. A life where my last name doesn't matter."

"You'd leave everything behind?" she asks. I nod. "But your studio," she says with concern.

"I'll bring all of his things and create a new studio," I say.

"Is this what he would want?" she asks, referencing my father.

I take a breath, ready to affirm her, but realize I'm not confident in my answer. So, I spend a while thinking before I truthfully say, "I don't know." I reach to rest my hand along the curve of her belly and stroke her skin with my thumb. "But it's what I want. And before you came along, he was my biggest supporter. I'm ready to follow through with things that I want - not what others want for me."

"I can't believe we're talking about this," she admits. "It doesn't seem possible."

"Is it something you want?" I ask. "To leave?"

She turns her head to look at the ceiling instead of me, then surveys the room with her eyes. "I think so," she says. "I… I think so."

"Our home is gorgeous," I say. "I've loved being married to you here. But everyone - and I mean that quite literally - knows where we are. At all times. The media will only worsen once the baby arrives."

Fear flits across her eyes. "I don't want that," she says. "I won't be able to take it."

"Me, neither," I say. "But my mother does want it. She will make sure that every outlet has an insider's scoop so people stay interested in our family." I know this without asking; it's simply the type of thing my mother would do. I could see it in her eyes at dinner; she's excited for the baby because of all the attention it will garner. Attention means money and money means notoriety - it's a never-ending cycle.

April's chin quivers and in order to calm her, I cup her jaw and caress her cheekbone softly. She sniffles, closes her eyes for a long moment, then says, "I don't have the first clue how to take care of a baby," she says. "I don't want to figure it out with the world watching."

"I know," I whisper, kissing her ear. She relaxes a bit once I do, looping one arm over my shoulder to drag her fingertips along my skin. "Just tell me where you want to go."

She buries her face in my neck and pulls me in closer, just breathing for a while. I allow her time as I rub her side and drop kisses to where I can reach. "I've always wanted to see Paris," she says after a long pause, quiet as a mouse.

I smile to myself and press a deft kiss to her shoulder, saying, "Then Paris is where we'll go."

…

As April and I are sitting on the couch in the Kepner house, I can feel her nerves as Karen brings us each a drink. She makes peppermint tea for her daughter and hands me a cup of coffee - just the way I like it. I've been around this woman for less than a year and she seems to know me better than my own mother does. "Good for the baby," Karen says, smiling at April as she takes the mug.

"Thanks, mom," April says quietly, holding it with both hands as she breathes in the steam.

"Sissy, come upstairs with us," Alice says, bouncing on the cushion next to where Karen sits. "Why do I have to stay and listen? I'm bored, mama."

"April and Jackson have something important to tell us," Karen says.

"Is it that Jackson put a baby in Sissy's belly? 'Cause I already know that," Kimmie pipes up.

"No," April says, voice wavering a bit. "It's something else."

"What is it?" Alice presses, throwing her head back.

"You're making me nervous," Libby says, showcasing a worried expression that I've seen April wear on more than one occasion.

"No… don't be nervous," April says, looking to me for support. Her eyes are pleading for help, so I assist her the best I can.

I cap a hand over her knee and rub my thumb in circles over the material of her tights. "We have news we'd like to share," I say. "It's big, so we wanted to tell you all in person. It also might not be the easiest for you to hear."

Karen's facial expression changes to that of realization, like she knows what I'm about to say before I can form the words. Then, she takes them right out of my mouth. "You're moving away," she states, simple as that.

April balks, lips parting so she can gape at her mother. "Mom… I…"

"Right?" Karen says, sounding open and receptive - which isn't what April was expecting. We talked this over for days - it's been almost a week since we made the decision. She was dreading telling her family because she was sure they'd feel abandoned and betrayed, left behind by their sun. But judging by the look in Karen's eyes, that's not correct.

"You're going away?" Alice asks, blue eyes watering already. "Sissy, you're going away?"

"Where?" Kimmie adds. "To where?"

"You can't go!"

"Girls," Libby says, quieting them. "Let her talk."

April looks to me, faltering a bit, but I nod to encourage her. Her words shouldn't be filtered through my mouth. These women are her family and they should be told by her. "We… are," she says, confirming Karen's suspicions. Her mother nods as if to punctuate the thought.

Kimmie and Alice start bawling, shoulders deflating as they cover their faces with their hands. "No!" Alice shouts, voice breaking. "No, no!"

"It's not fair," Kimmie says.

I look to my wife and see that she's begun to cry, too. She wipes beneath her eyes with her fingers, erasing the tears that fell even though she tried to blink them away. "Girls," she says, attempting to console them. "Don't cry. Please, don't cry."

"We're never, ever gonna see you again!" Alice wails.

April makes eye contact with her mother and Karen sees her crying. She extends an arm for her daughter and April falls into her side, sniffling and rubbing her nose. "I don't know what to say to them," April hiccups.

"You don't need to say anything," Karen says. "We understand. Libby and I, we've been talking for a while. The tabloids are obsessed with you now that you're pregnant. It's a toxic environment for a newborn, and it'll only get worse as they get older. They won't have any room to grow, and I know that's not something you want for your child. We knew you'd make the decision to leave eventually."

"I didn't even know, though," April says.

"Mothers know," Karen says, kissing April's temple. "Tell me where you're going."

April tells her everything and Karen listens, enraptured. Libby takes Kimmie on her lap and April cradles Alice as she cries. She doesn't try to stop the tears, she just lets the little girl sob and sniffle with her head on her chest, thumb in her mouth. April wraps her arms tight around her sister and kisses her hair, and I know, watching her in that moment, that she will be an amazing mother to our baby.

"You're gonna go away and never come back and never see us again," Alice whimpers after April is done relaying the details. She told them about our apartment in The 1st Arrondissement and how close it is to the Louvre and the Seine river. She told them that even though we'll be far away, it doesn't mean we're any less of a family and that they can fly out to see us on our dollar. Once the baby is old enough, we'll be happy to fly home and potentially consider a place in the United States again, but Europe is where we need to be while raising an infant. April doesn't feel like she can do it here, and I want to do everything on her terms. I'm more than happy to relocate to Paris. I've visited there a number of times and though she's never been, I have no doubt my wife will love it.

"That's not true," April says. "Remember what I said? You can fly on an airplane to come see us whenever you want. You can come to a brand new country, a brand new continent that you've never seen before."

Alice sniffles. "I won't get to play with my nephew niece," she says, and I smile at the fact that she doesn't know which to call our little one.

"You will," April assures her, stroking her sister's soft cheek. "I promise, you'll see us plenty. We just need to go away for a little while. We get too much attention here, and I need to go somewhere where that doesn't happen. I need to go somewhere where people don't care, where they don't know me."

"You'll get lonely," Alice says. "Why don't you want people to care about you?"

"So they stop taking pictures," April says. "Privacy is important to me and Jackson. And your nephew niece, they need privacy too."

"But…" Kimmie says, swiveling to look at her older sister. "We'll miss you so much."

"We'll miss you so much it already hurts," Alice echoes.

"Oh," April says, pulling them both close. She squeezes her eyes shut tight and holds onto them tighter - she doesn't move to let them free and they don't try to escape. They just stay there in an embrace while the rest of us look on, watching their bond grow stronger. "I miss you already, too," she says, cheeks squished by both of their heads. "But it won't be forever. I promise."

"Yeah, don't stay gone forever," Kimmie says. "Come back someday, Sissy, okay?"

"Okay," April promises, eyes still closed. "I will."

…

"We have to tell her."

"I do," I correct April as we stand next to each other in the wide bathroom mirror. A few days have passed, and she's already begun to box things up. I told her she shouldn't bother, but I frequently get brushed off. She says she's pregnant, not in a full body cast, and that I should let her do what needs to be done. By the time we get to the point of her saying that, her voice usually holds enough ferocity for me to back down. "I have to tell her."

"You don't have to do it alone," she says, glancing over as she dabs powder on her face. We're getting ready for tea with my mother, who will be over shortly. April's dress is hanging by the closet, blush pink and gone unworn until today. As of right now, she's wearing a bra and underwear, adorable belly on full display. If we weren't already behind schedule, I would eat her up.

"It isn't your responsibility," I say, making miniscule trims on my beard so everything is even. "You don't have to shoulder the weight of her wrath. That's my job."

"You didn't make this decision alone," April says sternly, eyebrows low. She puts her powder brush down and looks at me head-on. "Let me support you, Jackson."

I give her a once-over and feel my chest swell with adoration for everything she is. She's everything to me and so much more. The strongest person I've ever met. The kindest and most level-headed, the most down-to-earth. She's logical when the situation calls for it and silly when it doesn't. She's brilliant beyond what most people expect and nurturing beyond all means. I'm lucky to be married to her, even luckier that she loves me. She snuck up on me, that much is certain, and thoughts like this frequently do the same. "You know how she can be," I say. "I don't want you caught up in it."

"I won't be caught up in anything," she says, looking back into the mirror to apply mascara. "I can hold my own. And even so, you'll be there. Let me help you. This is our baby. Our choice. Our life."

"Okay," I concede. "But if things get out of hand, I won't let her bully you. I just won't allow it."

"How bad can it be?" she says, leaning in towards her reflection.

"You underestimate her," I say lowly. "The loss of control will send her reeling."

I know my mother better than anyone else does and I'm more than convinced this interaction will be anything but pleasant. There's a pit in my stomach that won't go away, but this has to be done. I try to tell myself that I'm not afraid of her, she doesn't frighten me, but that voice inside my head is quiet. She's had pull over me since my father died, and I'm about to take that pull away. The only plausible reaction to come from her is negative. "It's two against one," April says, screwing the cap back onto the mascara tube.

I zip up her dress after she puts it on, slowly dragging the zipper up until it reaches the nape of her neck. With her hair moved to one shoulder, her skin is exposed - so, I take advantage and press a slow kiss to the side of her neck. She relaxes a bit and uses one hand to hold the side of my head, stroking my hair as I let my forehead fall to rest on her shoulder.

"We'll be fine," she assures me.

"Okay," I say, though I'm not convinced in the slightest.

"We will be," she urges.

When my mother walks through the main door, my palms still sweat though I've tried to make them stop. I'm not afraid of anything or anyone; I refuse to let another person manipulate or take advantage of myself or my wife. Just because she's my mother and she's bent me to her will for my entire life doesn't mean that trend will continue. It stops now.

"Son," she says coolly, giving me a nod. Then, she looks to April and says, "April."

"Hi, Catherine," she says, hands folded at her waist. "Come in."

I watch as my wife takes the lead and shows my mother into the house, solidifying her grip on the reins before anyone can say otherwise. I appreciate it and it knocks my mother off her foundation, that much is obvious. April sits at the kitchen table and we follow suit - I sit next to my wife with an arm across the back of her chair and my mother sits a certain distance away from us. "I have to know what was so important that you called me here to talk in person," she says, accepting a cup of tea without looking at the person serving it. April thanks the staff effusively, making eye contact as she does. "I don't have all day. So, let's get to it. You wanted to sit me in the kitchen rather than the conference room for some godforsaken reason."

"I'm comfortable here," April says, setting her teacup down and looking my mother in the eye.

"So, you chose the meeting space," my mother says, then places her eyes on me with an eyebrow quirked. "Is there a new head of the Avery household, Jackson? Your wife seems to have stolen the pants from you to wear them."

I narrow my eyes. "We don't believe in those constructs," I say.

"What a changed man you are," she says, rolling her eyes while puffing out her cheeks.

I don't honor that comment with a response. Instead, I turn to April and she looks at me in the same moment, both of us gauging how we want to begin. Though I know she wants to shoulder some of the weight, it should be me who breaks the news. I stand by what I said when I told April she doesn't deserve my mother's wrath. "We have news we'd like to share," I say. "And before I tell you anything, I'd like you to know that you have no say over the decision we've made. It's already done." I take a deep breath and April grips my hand atop the table, stroking my knuckles with her thumb. "We're relocating," I say.

My mother doesn't flinch. "Tell me which house you chose so I can tell the staff to spruce it up," she says, already pulling out her phone to make such arrangements. "I assume you're thinking California. It'll be difficult with the recent fires, but-"

"Catherine, no," April says, and although she speaks softly, it's with confidence. "We're not moving to an Avery home."

My mother looks at her with scrutiny, like she couldn't have said anything less intelligent. "Where do you think you'll be going, then?" she spits. "There's no better place in the nation than a mansion that we already own."

April winds an arm around her belly and keeps her eyes centered on the woman next to her. "We're not staying here," she says. "The three of us are moving to Paris."

My mother looks to me, eyes on fire. "You're allowing her to make these types of decisions for you?" she says. "You're weak, Jackson. Just like your father."

"Don't talk to him like that," April says, speaking before I can. "He's not weak, and his father was lovely. We're moving because it's what we both want, and he's prioritizing our family over anything else. I don't want to raise my child in the life that you've chosen for us. I don't want to raise my child around you, Catherine."

I look to my wife with shock written all over my face. I'm beyond impressed; I knew she had that type of vim and vigor in her, but I didn't think she'd ever have the gall to stand up to my mother. "Are you going to let her talk to me like that?" she says to me.

I shift my eyes to hers. "I won't have you raising our child the same way you 'raised' me," I say. "We won't have nannies. We won't have butlers. We won't have a staff."

"You don't know the first thing about taking care of yourself," she hisses.

"I'll help him," April says, cutting in. "We'll to figure it out together."

My mother continues to look at me with pure fury. "I always knew you were too insecure to take on this last name," she says. "It's a good thing you idolize your father so much. He couldn't take it, either. Now, you can fulfill your dream of stepping into his shoes."

"Good," I say. "I think he'd be proud of me."

"For shirking your duties and abandoning your place? Oh, surely," she says, scoffing. "I'm sure you didn't think of this since you haven't thought anything through, but I want you to be made aware that you will not see a single cent of the inheritance if this child doesn't grow up on Avery property, as a proper Avery legacy. It was stated clearly in Harper's will - the child is to live an Avery life, which you are incapable of supplying without me."

"That's fine," April says, though she looks to me for affirmation after. I give it to her with a curt nod of the head. "That's fine," she repeats.

"So, no silly little foundations for either of you," she says. "What you had your sights set on for so long."

"We'll figure out another way," I say.

She stands up hastily, forcing the chair to make an abrasive sound on the tile below. "When you realize that you can't live with anything less than the plush life I've given you, there will be no home for you to come back to," she says.

"We'll have our own home," I say, and I know it's true. She can't take away everything I have - I still have savings and plenty of monetary provisions. April and I will be just fine without the exorbitant amount we're leaving behind.

"You won't make it on your own," she says, turning her back as she heads towards the door.

In that moment, I realize that this view is what I've seen most frequently. Her back as she walks away, whether it was to leave me with a nanny as a child or to leave me on my own as I grew older. She never stood by my side and helped me, never encouraged me, never nurtured me in the way I so badly needed. She loved the idea of a legacy but not the hard work of parenting, so she simply decided to give that work to someone else. I'll no longer be her trophy son and she'll be alone. She'll be alone while I start a family with the woman I love, the one sitting up straight beside me harboring a taut, pinched expression.

When my mother leaves through the front door, April looks at me and squeezes my hand. "She's wrong," she says.

"Well, not totally," I tell her, then amend my statement before she can negate it. "I wouldn't make it on my own. I probably wouldn't last a day." I bring her hand to my face and kiss it, lingering for a long moment as I look into her eyes. "But I won't be alone. I have you."

Her face softens and a warm smile spreads from her mouth to her eyes. She holds both sides of my head and pulls me closer, pressing her lips to my forehead deliberately. They're still there when she says, "And I have you."

…

"Ma chérie, tu es lá?"

I smile to myself from where I sit at the wooden dining room table, going through a recipe book as April walks in the front door of our apartment. "In here, mon coeur," I call back.

She appears in the doorway with a breathless smile moments later, hair askew and coming out of its ponytail. "There you are," she says, setting down her brown bag of fresh groceries.

"I love when you speak French," I say, watching her as she unloads what she bought.

"I know you do," she says. "My accent is horrible, though."

"Your accent is cute," I say.

"Says you," she says. "Okay. I got a bunch of fresh spices for dinner tonight, if you still feel like cooking."

"I was just looking up the recipe," I say. We planned on eating cassoulet tonight, which is a classic French dish. April has tried her hand at a few other things, most of which have gone over well. Now, it's my turn and I definitely don't expect as impressive of a result.

"Okay," she says. "And I got these." She pulls out a bouquet of beautiful, multicolored flowers that she holds in front of my face to smell. "I couldn't resist. And these, for my sisters when they come." She pulls out one long purple ribbon and one of the same size that's periwinkle blue.

"They'll love them," I say.

"I thought so, too," she says. "And then… I heard from Dr. Auguste that berries are great for the baby. And since I'm so far along, I really need the extra calories. So, I can eat as many as I want."

I survey at the assortment of berries in cartons that she's taken out of the bag, then look up to her proud smile - one hand resting on her very round belly. She's 7 months along now, and we've been living in our Paris apartment for almost 3 of those. Every day, things get a little homier and a little more comfortable, but time is still moving much too quickly. "I'm sure you'll share," I say teasingly.

"I'm sure I won't," she says, snatching them up. She walks towards the kitchen, then calls over her shoulder, "You better get started if you want to be finished by dinnertime."

"I will," I say, watching her when she comes back after putting the food away.

"I'm going to take a nap," she says. "My feet are so swollen, I'm not sure how I plan on getting my shoes off. But will you come get me when you're finished?"

"Of course," I say, then stand. I place my hands on either side of her belly and give her a chaste kiss on the lips, one she smiles into. "Have a nice rest."

"Don't burn the place down," she says, rapping her knuckles against my chest. "I can't move very fast these days."

I peck her on the cheek then tap her ass as she turns around. "Hold the jokes," I say, and she snickers.

I work for a while in the kitchen, playing the radio softly as I try to adhere to the recipe as strictly as possible. April has been so hungry lately, so anything less than a magnificent dinner will be a disappointment, and that's the last thing I want. It takes a good amount of time for me to perfect it, but by the time the cassoulet is finished, it looks decently similar to the one in the photo.

I set the table then find my way to our room, pushing open the door once I arrive. She has the window open, which is no surprise since she overheats easily these days. She's wearing loose shorts and a long-sleeved, airy shirt, hair taken from its ponytail to flow over the pillow. Her arms are strewn above her head and her shirt has ridden up just a bit, exposing a strip of skin on her stomach. Unable to resist, I smile to myself as I walk to the bed, then push her shirt up even further. I kiss the round of her belly and feel movement underneath as our daughter kicks - the daughter that neither April nor my mother expected. My mother doesn't know we're having a girl nor will she ever, and if she did she would probably only have negative things to say. April, on the other hand, is overjoyed. Though we haven't yet been able to come up with a name, both of us are already obsessed with our little angel. I've already painted the nursery - handcrafting the trim myself with contrasting designs that will surely catch her eye. There's a mural of the sky on the ceiling with lifelike landscapes along the walls and a bright, yellow sun in the corner. All the furniture is prepared and ready for her - a cherry wood crib, changing table, rocking chair, and bookshelf, with a plush, white armchair for nursing. Inside the crib, along with stuffed animals gifted by Kimmie and Alice, is the blue blanket that April had held onto so dearly - repaired and refurbished. Now, it will belong to a baby once again.

"Sweetest," I say, massaging her stomach. "Dinner's ready. It's time to wake up."

Her eyes come open slowly, lashes fluttering as she widens them to look at me. "Hmmm, hi baby," she says, stretching. "It's ready?"

"It is," I say. "And it looks wonderful. I hope you're hungry."

"We are," she says, overlapping my hand on her belly. "Let's eat."

We have a nice dinner together, just like every other night. We don't go out much here because we're not quite used to the life we lead, and both of us have an unspoken fear of being recognized. So far, it hasn't happened - but I'm dreading the moment it inevitably does. Our bubble will burst and the quiet existence we've created might come toppling down. Of course, Europe is different than America being that the people are less intrusive, but the idea is still a harrowing one. We're not there yet. I'm not sure when we will be.

After dinner, though, we make a special trip to see the Eiffel Tower after dark. It's lit up with beautiful, yellow lights, and April's face shines underneath it as we stand with tourists and locals alike, admiring the gigantic structure. We find a bench and she takes my hand, clasping my fingers tight as she stares at the sight. Without hearing her say it, I know she's happy. She's calm and content whereas she wasn't before, and here she feels safe. She can let her guard down and live the way she wants, rather than how she thinks others want her to live. I've gotten to know April better in the last 3 months than I did during the entirety of our time in Chicago, and it's been a breath of fresh air. As each day passes, I fall more in love with who she is.

"I feel your eyes," she says after a while, though she doesn't look over. She continues to study the tower, eyes shining with the reflection.

"Because I'm looking at you," I say.

She turns to ask, "Why?"

"Because I love you."

She screws up her lips in a smile and shakes her head, rolling her eyes a bit. "You're funny," she says, then holds my jaw to kiss me. "I love you, too."

We spend a moment with our foreheads pressed together and I know, in that breath, that everything is where it's supposed to be. We're in a beautiful city, we live in a beautiful apartment that we've made our own, my wife loves me, and we have a daughter on the way. I've never felt more locked into place than I do right now. "Do you think we're ready?" I ask, one hand moving to rest on her stomach between us.

"Yes," she says, nodding. "I once heard this saying that says 'you won't know until you get there that you're okay.' And…" She shrugs. "I think I'm okay."

I smile and kiss her once, twice, three times. "I am, too," I say.

She takes my hand and turns to look at the tower again, this time leaning her head on my shoulder. "Our little girl needs a name," she says, tracing my knuckles.

"She does," I agree.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," she says. "And I feel like this is where we're supposed to be. Here, in France. I've never been as happy as I am here with you. And… I want her name to mirror that, you know? So, I've been trying to figure out a way to make that happen."

"Did you come up with something?" I ask.

"I did," she says, smiling. "I'm just not sure how you'll feel about it."

"Anything you like, I like," I say.

"Except for bananas," she points out, tapping my knee. "Which you're still wrong about, by the way." I chuckle softly and kiss her temple, encouraging her along. "It means 'happiness' in Old French," she says. "Joya." She smiles hesitantly then continues. "Not with a hard J. A soft one, like...almost like the word 'genre'? Joya." She tests it out again and looks to me for a response. "Do you hate it?"

"No," I answer, wrapping one arm around her to hold her close. "It's perfect."

"You think?"

I nod. "For our Paris girl, yes," I say. "I love it. Joya."

April smiles softly, looking to the bump where newly-named Joya still resides. "She has a name," she says, tracing the roundness of it. "You have a name now, little one."

I double over and press a kiss right next to her hand, and feel a kick from the inside. I laugh to myself and rub her skin over her shirt, saying the name one more time for effect. "Joya," I say, then close my eyes and kiss her belly again. "Joya."