But you waited for her to surprise you over dinner one night three weeks later, observed her flushed cheeks as she withdrew the gift bag from her "hiding place" under the bed where she always hid her Christmas presents to you every year.  You spent the rest of the night, and many more nights that cold winter, debating the merits of Abigail and Bridget and Colleen and Dawn.

Never Sydney.

By the time April drew near, you had a short list of names ready for the big day.  Laura refused to narrow the list down to just one, maintaining that you had to look at your daughter—she never did believe she was carrying a boy—and then decide on a name.

After two days of debating, discussing, and arguing, the nurses were ready to name her for you.  And then someone—Arvin, you realize as the bile rises in your throat—suggested Sydney, and suddenly, it was as if a light bulb went off.

Sydney.

*****

You never thought you'd be someone's hero.

You joined the CIA at an early age.  While you could never fully disclose your occupation, you always noticed the disdain on people's faces when you vaguely told them that you worked for the government.  Your colleagues and superiors grudgingly gave their respect—but only after you earned it, after you proved to them that you belonged there, that you were worthy of their time, that you were intelligent enough to stand in their circles.

It was different with Sydney.

It was always different with Sydney.

Sydney looked up at you with wide-eyed adoration, even as a baby.  Her mouth quickly formed the syllable "Da," and she repeated it with all of her might for hours on end.  When she was old enough, she would stand in her crib and hold the railing as she chanted "Da da da da da da da da."  Every time Laura would stand in front of her and prod, "Say ma-ma," she would respond with a gleeful "Da!"

By the time she was toddling around everyone knew she had you wrapped around her little finger. 

You were her father, and you could do no wrong.  You could climb the highest mountain, move heaven and earth, do whatever it took in her eyes.

You've been trying to move heaven and earth now for almost two years.

*****

She wasn't supposed to grow up alone.

Both you and Laura—Irina, you correct yourself; even if she was Laura at the time, she was always Irina—wanted at least two children, maybe more.

Or perhaps only you wanted two children.  You make a mental note to ask Irina later, fill in one more piece of the "Laura versus Irina" puzzle you have constructed over the years.

Regardless, it never happened.  You were away on assignment at the wrong time of the month; Sydney was sick and kept both of you up all night and left you exhausted; Laura—Irina—had already made plans to attend an out-of-town conference.  Something always came up to interrupt your baby-making plans.

And then came the day that destroyed them.

You can still see Sydney sleeping peacefully in her bed that night, the covers kicked off, her teddy bear on the floor, her left pajama pant leg bunched up around her knee.  You watched as the moonlight cast a glow on her face and wondered if your wife was now watching over her from above.  Eventually, you quietly closed the door behind you and tried to go to your own bedroom to sleep for a few precious hours—but you couldn't.  Walking into that bedroom, where you and Laura had shared so much, left you unable to breathe.  Gasping, choking back sobs that you never did let out, you returned to your daughter's side, the one living, breathing thing holding a slight tether to reality for you, and sat down in a small, child-size chair, content to watch her sleep peacefully for the remainder of the night.

You knew it was probably the last peaceful sleep she would have for awhile.

When she woke the next morning, you were still sitting there in that chair, although looking back now you are surprised it held your weight for so long.  Her eyes widened and she rushed out of bed to you.

"Daddy!  Are we going to play tea party?"