My sister Eliza and I shared everything — secrets, heartbreaks, even our weird dreams. So when she got pregnant, I expected to be part of every step. But she shut me out of one thing: the baby’s name. Everyone else knew — even our mom — and I was the only one left in the dark.

When I finally forced the truth out, it floored me. Eliza was naming the baby “Tooh” — not a trend, not a quirk, but a quiet tribute to the child she had lost before. A name meant to carry memory, but also grief. To me, it felt more like a burden than a blessing.

I confronted her, heart racing, accusing her of chaining her new daughter to pain she never chose. Our words cracked like thunder, leaving the room silent and raw. I left, furious — not just at the name, but at feeling like I’d lost my sister to sorrow. But I also made a vow: I would protect that baby, no matter what.

Then came the birth. I arrived breathless, unsure what to expect — until Eliza looked at me and whispered the baby’s name: “Camille.” My own name. Her way of saying thank you. Of trusting me again. And as I held that tiny girl in my arms, I swore she’d grow up knowing love, not loss.