My sister Eliza and I had always shared everything—secrets, dreams, even heartbreaks. So when she got pregnant, I expected to be part of it all. But when I asked about the baby’s name, she brushed me off with vague replies. At first, I thought she wanted to surprise everyone. But soon I realized everyone else already knew—our mom, her in-laws, even cousins. Everyone but me.

Hurt and confused, I finally confronted Mom, who hesitantly admitted Eliza didn’t want to tell me because she thought I’d laugh. That stung. I demanded to know the name, and when Mom whispered “Tooh,” I froze. Eliza had once miscarried a baby she never got to name. Tooh—T-O-O-H, pronounced like “two”—wasn’t quirky. It was a tribute.

I stormed to Eliza’s house, furious. “You’re naming her after the number of babies you’ve had?” I asked. Eliza calmly replied, “It’s how we honor the one we lost.” I exploded. “You’re placing grief on this child before she’s even born!” Our fight ended with me walking out, heartbroken.

But when Eliza gave birth early, I rushed to the hospital. The room was peaceful, her baby sleeping nearby. “Want to hold her?” Eliza asked. I nodded through tears, cradling my niece, already knowing I’d love her fiercely—no matter her name.

Then the nurse asked for the baby’s name. Eliza looked at me and said, “Her name is Camille.” Shocked, I burst into tears. “Why?” I asked. Eliza smiled softly. “Because she’ll need someone like you to show her how to live.”

And I would. Always.