Moriah.

I wanted to be 26 weeks pregnant on a windy, tree laden, hilly, suburban road. With a husband who had nice eyes. His name; Allen, Alexander, Todd, Thad, Robbie. As long as those eyes were kind, decent. A pay check to support us, didn't hurt. We would skip brunch with the in laws on Saturdays to go down to the nearby mineral pond and skinny dip. He'd say I was beautiful, only in private, as a rule to himself.

We'd wade in that mineral pool, he'd pull the wet, thick, dark strands of my auburn hair away from my eyes with his middle and forefinger. He'd press his lips to mine, we'd make love by the rocky face of the water beneath weeping willows. Splashing and bird song would be the melody to this love story.

We'd have a daughter, name her Moriah, and In the spring adopt a German Shepherd named Piggles who would whine over the injustice of shared attention. Sometimes I'd let myself in on the secret of our magical life. Only for a moment, though until the wash had to be folded or the cable bill paid while I'd sprint under squeaky wooden floors to get a pen and balanced check book.

Alexander was his name, actually. And we had to name her Lonnie after his great grandmother. We would play piano in the evenings together, as Lonnie cooed in the background. There were more hills than I'd have liked, and the trees weren't much to make up for it all, in the end. Though I loved the library that came with the house. It had white wanes coating, with wooden floors.

But he called me beautiful in front of everyone, more of testament to himself than as a rule to make me happy. He let me choose her middle name, which I chose Moriah, of course. I loved her dearly. In her first spring, I put her pudgy little toes in my mouth counting each one with the tip of my bottom lip that had just weaned off the last of the honey suckle plant in the front yard.

When the rains came, our front porch roof, that doubled as the sun room, dipped with the down pour and Moriah and I would point and laugh with the tales we'd found in the left over books of the library under it. He'd come home that night. He bid me hello. He kissed Moriah on the top of her toe head and led me in to the kitchen with a stern stare. He opened his brief case and pulled out of it the piece of paper foretelling the rest of our lives.