Andrew Roe

My daughter is again saying how she doesn’t like her name: How could you name me that? What were you thinking, Mom? When I’m old enough, I’m going to change it anyway. To Carol. Or Alice. Or Mary. I want a normal name. Not some psycho-hippie name.

I don’t say anything. It has been one of those days. Even the cat seems out of sorts, rolling on the kitchen floor like it has an itch or a tumor. I’m sorry, I tell her. I’m sorry you don’t like your name.

There is dinner to prepare. But first, dishes need to be done. The name was the name of a Hindu goddess. The name meant something to me back then. Now, it is just a word―it is my daughter, with all her wonders and quirks and teenaged layers, and it will always be her, no matter what she calls herself.


Whose love saved the world.