My sister Eliza and I had always been incredibly close, sharing everything from teenage secrets to adult milestones. So when she became pregnant, I expected to be involved in every detail—until she suddenly refused to share the baby’s name. At first, I thought she was just being private or playful, but over time, it became clear everyone else in the family knew the name except me. That realization hurt more than I expected and left me confused about why I was being shut out.
Eventually, I confronted our mother, who reluctantly admitted Eliza feared I might laugh at the name. That shocked me—I’d never intentionally hurt my sister. When I finally discovered the name was “Tooh,” pronounced like “two,” I was confused until I remembered Eliza’s first pregnancy, which ended in heartbreak. “Tooh” was meant as a tribute to the baby she had lost, a way of honoring her grief. Though I understood the meaning, I worried about the weight such a name could place on her daughter.
Our confrontation was emotional. I told Eliza I felt naming her child as a memorial might place unnecessary emotional baggage on an innocent baby. She, in turn, reminded me that it wasn’t my decision to make. Despite our disagreement, I knew one thing for certain—I would love and support this child unconditionally, no matter her name. I just wanted her to grow up free of sorrow that wasn’t hers to carry.
When Eliza gave birth, I rushed to the hospital, ready to embrace whatever name she had chosen. But to my surprise, she looked at me and quietly said, “Her name is Camille.” I was overwhelmed with emotion. Eliza had changed her mind—she named her daughter after me, not as a burden, but as a tribute to the love and strength we shared. In that moment, I knew: this child would never walk alone.