Twenty-four years passed before my daughter broached the origins of her given name.
I was confident, as most young parents are, the question would have come up much sooner. I thought- as she passed through the annals of adolescence, trying to hide joints in her school bag and dated boys (many of whom were of questionable character)- that she would pause a moment and look across the kitchen table, hazel burning holes in my morning paper and ask the inevitable.
“Dad?” I imagined she would say, somehow able to break the lone syllable in two and suggest the second half belonged to a higher octave.
“Why Skylar? Was there any point to it? Did Mom, like, find it in a baby name book or something?”
But the questions never came. When I looked over my paper, she would be avoiding my gaze, eyes swimming in the cereal bowl…
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