When I found out I was pregnant, I was overwhelmed with joy—and fear. I wanted to give my child a name that felt like a blessing, something filled with love and meaning. But my mother had other plans.
She insisted I name my baby after her. Not suggested—insisted. She said it was tradition, that it was the least I could do after all she’d done for me. But her voice wasn’t filled with warmth. It was sharp, demanding, almost desperate.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to argue, but I also didn’t want to give in. The name she wanted carried weight—memories I’d buried deep. My childhood wasn’t filled with bedtime stories and gentle hugs. It was marked by control, manipulation, and emotional wounds I still hadn’t healed.
When I gently told her I’d chosen a different name, she exploded. Accused me of being ungrateful. Said I was erasing her legacy. But the truth was, I was protecting my child from a legacy I didn’t want passed down.
Later, I learned something that shook me: the name she wanted me to use wasn’t just hers—it was the name of the woman who had hurt her, too. Her own mother. A woman who had inflicted pain on both of us, in different ways.
Suddenly, her obsession made sense. She wasn’t just trying to control me—she was trying to rewrite her own story through my child. But I couldn’t let that happen.
I named my baby something new. Something soft, strong, and free. And while my mother still brings it up, I stand firm. Because my child deserves a name born of love—not of trauma.
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