My mother had never known which man it was from the countless interrogations in the prison cell. The one who created a jumbled collection of haphazard cells and genes that took root in her womb and grew into me. She had no certainty, no desire to know, and, most of all, she had no regrets.
She could have named me Suzan, Tigerlily, or the elegant-sounding Clarisse. Instead, she called me Gloria, not because she had lofty expectations for me, but because she wanted to recall the first heartbeat and revel in the glory of motherhood for the rest of her life.