I can’t have kids, and though I’ve made peace with it, I always held onto a name I’d dreamed of giving my child. Last night, I found out my sister gave her newborn that exact name — first and middle. I only knew because my mom let it slip at dinner.

When I asked why, my sister shrugged and said, “You weren’t going to use it anyway. At least it stays in the family.” I was stunned. That name wasn’t just a name — it was the piece of a dream I could never have. I told her if she used it, I’d never see her baby as family.

My mom snapped, “Your pain isn’t a reason to punish a baby. You’re selfish.” Maybe she’s right, but I can’t shake the hurt. That name was mine, the one I imagined on the nursery door I’ll never hang. Now it feels stolen, turned into her legacy instead of my comfort.

I don’t know how to move forward. Part of me wants to protect my heart, while another part fears cutting ties with my sister forever. Am I the villain here for drawing a line — or just a grieving woman trying to hold on to something that was once hers?