Her name was supposed to be Gwendolyn. At least, that’s what my mother told me when she and my dad left for the hospital. They came back the next day; my mother was holding the baby. I couldn’t see anything because she was so tiny, wrapped in a blanket like a Hot Pocket. “Here’s little baby Maggie,” my mother said. She bent down a little, even though it looked like it hurt her to do that. “Baby Gwen,” I corrected her. How could a mother forget her own baby’s name? I was thinking. This isn’t a good sign, right off the bat. “Baby Maggie,” my mother said. “We decided in the hospital when we saw her. She’s a Maggie, for sure.” But you can’t just do that. You can’t just change your baby’s name whenever you feel like it. I felt a panic in my stomach, like when I eat too much candy. What if they decided to change my name? Who would I be? “Baby Gwen,” I said again. They just had to see the light. My dad was hiding behind the video camera, and I could see him shaking with laughter.
