My sister Eliza and I were always more than just siblings—we were best friends. From childhood to adulthood, we shared every secret, every heartbreak, every weird dream, and every random idea.
When Eliza had her first kiss at fourteen, I knew before her diary did. When her boyfriend dumped her in high school, she crawled into my bed at 2 a.m., sobbing until she couldn’t breathe.
She called me after every fight with our mom, before every job interview, even when she once had a dream about flying cats and wanted to dissect its meaning. We were that close.
So when Eliza told me she was pregnant, I was over the moon. I thought, Here comes another chapter we’ll share together.
I imagined us shopping for tiny onesies, painting the nursery together, and of course, coming up with baby names. I was already collecting a list of names I loved.
One day during our coffee date, I leaned forward, grinning like a maniac. “So, what names are you thinking of for my future niece?”
Eliza smiled… but not her usual smile. It was stiff. Distant. “We’re still deciding,” she said, gently stirring her decaf like the mug was more interesting than the conversation.
“Come on, Liz, you’re due in a few weeks! You must have a few favorites by now. Are we going with family names? Or something totally unique?”
She didn’t even look at me. “Still figuring it out, Cam.”
And then she gave me that look—the “drop it now” look. I recognized it instantly.
I blinked, stunned. That was it? No cute back-and-forth? No list-making, no teasing about old-lady names, not even a joke about naming the baby after a cartoon character?
Just silence.
Something felt off. But I told myself not to take it personally. Maybe she wanted it to be a surprise. Maybe her husband Miles was being picky.
So I kept texting her name suggestions. Each time, she replied with the same lie:
“We haven’t decided yet.”
But one weekend, I went shopping with our cousin and casually brought up how Eliza wouldn’t tell me the name.
My cousin froze mid-step. “Oh… you don’t know?” Her smile was awkward and tight.
That was the first red flag.
Then, at Eliza’s baby shower, I joked about not knowing the name to Miles’s mom. She smiled weirdly, like she didn’t know what to say. Aunt Linda choked on her coffee when I asked. And when I saw Miles’s younger brother at the gym, he nearly dropped a dumbbell on his foot when I mentioned it.
Everyone knew the name.
Except me.
I thought, No way. She wouldn’t hide something like that from me. Would she?
But the final blow came during dinner with our mom.
“Everyone’s acting so strange when I mention the name,” I said casually, watching Mom’s face.
She laughed nervously. “I’m sure you’re just imagining things, honey.”
“I’m not.” I stared at her. “You know the name, don’t you?”
Mom’s eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at me. Then she stood up suddenly and grabbed her plate. “Dishes won’t wash themselves!”
“Oh no, you’re not escaping this.” I followed her into the kitchen. “Mom, please. Why am I the only one she’s hiding this from?”
She sighed heavily and set the plate in the sink. “Eliza asked us not to tell you. She thought… you’d laugh.”
“Laugh?” I was stunned. “When have I ever laughed at her? At anything that actually mattered?”
Mom looked torn. “It’s… a very unusual name, Camille. She just didn’t want you to react badly.”
My voice shook. “Tell me the name.”
Mom hesitated, then whispered, “It’s Tooh. T-O-O-H.”
I blinked. “Like the word ‘too’? As in ‘also’? What?”
“She says it’s pronounced like the number two, but softer. It’s… creative,” Mom said weakly.
But something inside me cracked open.
And I remembered.
Two years ago. A midnight call. Eliza sobbing on the phone. “Cam, I lost the baby.”
I was the only one who knew about her first pregnancy.
I rushed to her apartment that night. She was sitting in her bathtub, fully clothed, soaked in tears, her eyes empty. She clung to me and whispered over and over, “I didn’t even get to name her.”
Now, I finally understood.
Tooh wasn’t just a quirky name. It was a memorial. A secret tribute to the baby she lost.
But instead of feeling honored, I felt horrified.
This wasn’t poetic. This was… cruel. A burden for a child who had no say.
I drove to Eliza’s house that night, my heart slamming against my chest.
She was in the nursery, folding tiny clothes.
“Are you seriously naming her Tooh?” My voice trembled.
She looked up calmly. “We are.”
“You’re naming her after the number of babies you’ve had?”
Eliza carefully placed a pair of baby shoes in the drawer and shut it gently.
“It’s a memory,” she said softly. “It honors the one we lost.”
Something inside me snapped.
“No. It’s a weight. Every time you say her name, you’re reminding her she was second. She’ll feel that. She’ll grow up knowing she was born in the shadow of someone she never met.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I do! You’re hanging your pain around her neck! What happens when she’s five and asks what her name means? When she’s older and finds out she was named after a dead sibling?”
Eliza’s face hardened. “It’s not your decision, Camille. This is our child.”
I looked straight at her and said the one thing I knew was true:
“Then I’ll protect her—from this name, from the grief you’re tying to her. She didn’t ask to be a symbol. She deserves her own story.”
I stormed out.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about that baby growing up confused, burdened, lost.
So I made a promise: No matter what her name ended up being, I would love her for her. I’d be her truth. Her protector. Her light.
A few weeks later, Eliza went into labor early. I got the call from Miles while they were already at the hospital.
I raced there but missed the birth by minutes.
When I finally burst into the hospital room, everything felt still and magical. Eliza looked tired but glowing. Miles had tears in his eyes. And in the clear plastic bassinet beside them was a tiny human—pink, wrinkly, perfect.
“Want to hold her?” Eliza asked quietly.
I nodded, too choked up to speak.
The nurse handed her to me, and I swear I felt the entire world pause.
Then another nurse walked in with a clipboard. “What’s her name?” she asked Eliza.
I braced myself. I told myself I’d smile, even if I hated it.
But Eliza looked right at me.
Her voice cracked a little, but her words were clear:
“Her name is Camille.”
I gasped.
Tears sprang to my eyes. “What? Why?”
Eliza’s own eyes were wet now. “Because you fought for her, even when I didn’t get it. You showed me how much she matters. She needs someone like you in her life. So… why not give her your name?”
I held that baby close and whispered, “Then I’ll be double the woman she needs. I’ll be her strength. I’ll make sure she always knows who she is.”
I didn’t just become an aunt that day.
I became her anchor.
And this time, we would build her story together—one full of love, light, and freedom.