He searches for the perfect name, pointing out street signs and writing down the names of his coworkers' kids. Somewhere around here, he'll find the inspiration, something beautiful for his daughter. He wants it to be perfect, the first gift he gives her, one that will stay with her for all her life.

His other two daughters help, throwing out names that come to mind. 

"Lauren!"

"Elizabeth!"

"Kylie." 

He hesitates on the K, a name to match his daughters. Their names both mean pure and start with K, and he likes the idea. Not Kylie, but something else?

The answer comes at church, when one of the kids from Sunday school runs through him by accident, and he leaps out of the way as his youngest shouts her name, "Kaitlin, come back!" 

"Kaitlyn," he says. It fits. 

It too means pure. 

He doesn't tell anyone at first, turning the name over in his mind again. With his last daughter, he hadn't known until he stood above her and saw it in her eyes. Still, though, it had fit. 

This time, he knew before he saw her. 

The other women in his family keep proposing ideas.

"Clara."

"Rebekah."

"Rylie." 

His oldest rushes in one day, shouting in glee. "I've got it! Her name's going to be Olivia!" 

He tries it on. It fits too.

On the day he holds his youngest daughter in his arms, he doesn't cry, smiling as he pulls her close. Could any love compare to this? 

Kaitlyn Olivia.  It's her. 

His daughter. 

Years pass. Hardship grows, and easy smiles crush themselves away. His daughters age, laughing and crying and screaming and fighting and loving and learning all at the same time. Through it all, he's there. For their first steps, the jokes that make no sense, the 3am sicknesses, the late night discipline, the bedtime hugs, the music lessons, first days of school, history sessions, rising and falling friendships, religious conflict and more. 

His daughters age away from him, and he figures that means he's doing his job right, teaching his young women to be independent and sufficient. 

Then one day, Kaitlyn Olivia sends him a message, unwilling to face him with her words. They sting. 

His daughter doesn't want to be his daughter anymore. 

"Call me, my boy. Call me Ak. I hate my name," his child writes to him.

The world has told him that if he truly loves her, he'll call her a boy, he'll call her by the name she chooses. One that means powerful instead of pure. One that means individualistic over innocent. 

Over the years, he has borne many blows. The blame, accusation, and hurt of his children. He has let them sharpen their claws on him, knowing that in this way, he prepares them for a world where they will need them. He's seen them tear a family apart and denounce it for all to hear. He's seen many good gifts taken and used, then lost and broken in days. Yet through all, he has loved and loved.

Yet this? How could a father lose his daughter? 

He tells his daughter he loves her. That she will always be Kaitlyn to him. That this was the name he had given her. She didn't have to use it, but surely she could understand? How for him, there was no other name? 

Maybe she sensed the pain in his plea, and she nods. She lets him have this. 

And though she still introduces herself as Ak, she lets him call her by the name he gave her, and when he says it, she still finds it beautiful.