Today, your father and I played a game, and that game was, “If we had a girl, what should we name her?”

First of all, I’m so, so sorry. You don’t remotely exist yet, but I hope you’re born a boy. Because I don’t want you to face the hardship of being born into this world with the kind of name your father wants to give you.

Your mother is boring. By now, you must know this. I’m stuck on Rose as a middle name and that’s my only thought. Solid grandmother material, looks good on a business card, popularized by so very very many fictional heroines that none of them stand out. Also, a pretty flower! You can go wrong with pretty flowers, but you have to foray into the weeds of Germanium and Rhododendron.

Your father’s first suggestion was to name you after our cat. Things proceeded downhill from there.

I don’t know if you know this word—and if not, then I’m sorry to be the one to teach you—but have you ever heard of “vore”?

DON’T google that. Or at least turn safe search on first. When your father proposed “Vor” for your name in all seriousness, seated at the kitchen table, I nearly choked on my sushi. I waited for sanity to strike him. He blinked innocently. I reminded him of the fetish. He continued on in willful bliss, disbelieving that the English speakers you will invariably grow up surrounded by would make the connection to the fetish before the Norwegian word for Spring, “Vår.”

His follow-up was “Vinter.” Yes, that’s winter with a V, because Norwegians are easy to caricature. “I like season names,” he said, as if this excused him.

“Your mother has a good friend named Sigrid,” I desperately pleaded. “Isn’t Sigrid a nice name?”

This turned out to be the worst thing I could’ve said for reasons no one would predict. Because he was reminded of his mother’s mother, and her name was Marvel. He proceeded to google “Marvel girls name” and be very confused when the top search results were universally about Scarlet Witch, Black Widow, and Carol Danver.

“Anyone could’ve predicted that,” I pleaded. “Literally anyone. You can’t name this kid Marvel. I refuse to, for the rest of my life, alienate every one of the millions of Marvel Cinematic Universe fans I might meet by first making them think I was crazy enough to name my kid after their franchise and then explaining that, actually, I hate all those movies. Why would you do this. I thought you loved me.”

“It’s a beautiful name,” he insisted. “I think it means ‘miracle’. People used to be named Marvel, I swear. Just give me a moment to find more examples.”

“Grandmothers used to be named Marvel,” I countered, as he scrolled through eighty thousand search results about women in CGI spandex. “This is worse than Vor, honestly.”

I did not win this argument. I gulped down my sushi and fled like a coward. We’d spent some time looking at a list of names for girls in Norway, so I am transcribing your father’s favorites here, because tragedies should be memorialized to ward against their recurrence: Bjørg, Solveig, Freya, Svanhild, Hildegunn, Eldbjørg, Enya.

Yeah, Enya like the New Age singer. I know.

Then, as I was running the above list past your father to ensure I was doing his terrible taste complete, factual justice, he told me that his Mormor Marvel was the woman who inspired him to kindness. He told me that her memory is so vivid that he dreams of her, and that he loves and misses her every day.

Basically, I let him convince me. Sorry!

So, my dear daughter. My beloved Marvel (This-Is-Not-A-Copyright-Infringement) Jordal. This is your origin story, and I hope it made you laugh at least once, because I think we owe that to you as an apology. I also hope you can find some superhero to like, so your inevitable conversations with strangers are less than completely awkward.

Mea culpa,

Your Hypothetical Mother