The Baby Name List

When Margit was eight months pregnant, she and Kasimir sat on the sofa with two sheets of paper. Each of them had written a list of names, and they had agreed to compare them that evening.

It took about thirty seconds. They had no names in common. Not one.

Margit's list was full of long, old-fashioned names. Kasimir's list was full of short, modern ones. "Yours all sound like grandmothers," he said. "Yours all sound like robots," she answered. They argued for an hour, not angrily, but very stubbornly.

Then Kasimir had an idea. "What if we stop trying to choose? We only cross out. Each of us crosses out one name we hate, and we take turns. Whatever is left at the end wins."

"And if nothing is left?"

"Then we get a dog instead."

Margit laughed, and the argument was over. They crossed out names for two evenings. Some were easy to lose. Some hurt a little. Margit crossed out one that she had loved since she was twelve, and she pretended it didn't matter. By Sunday, both lists were almost empty, and the baby kicked as if she had an opinion.

"We should stop," Margit said. "If we keep going, our daughter will have no name at all."

"We could call her Baby," Kasimir said. "It's short, it's modern, and everyone already knows it."

Three weeks later, they were sitting on plastic chairs in the hospital, waiting for a check. There was a big poster on the wall, with pictures of wildflowers and each name printed underneath. To pass the time, Kasimir read them one by one. In the corner, there was a small purple flower.

"Iris," he said.

"Say it again," Margit said.

He did. It wasn't on his list. It wasn't on hers. It wasn't long and old, and it wasn't short and trendy. It was simply a name that felt right.

"Don't cross anything out," Margit said. "That's the one."

Their daughter was born ten days later. When the nurse asked for the name for the form, Margit began to answer. Kasimir was already saying it too, and they finished the word together.