When my sister Emily named her newborn son Martin—just like my son—I thought it was a strange coincidence. I chalked it up to sibling overlap, shrugged it off, and tried to be gracious.
But after our mother’s unexpected passing, and during the reading of her will, everything changed. The name, the timing… it all started to make sense in a way that made my heart ache.
The day Emily gave birth, I waited outside the delivery room beside her husband, Jake. The hallway was cold and quiet, the air thick with anticipation and unspoken worry. When the nurse finally let us in, the world felt briefly suspended.
Emily looked exhausted but joyful, cradling a tiny, wrinkled newborn. When she said his name was Martin, I froze.
“You know that’s my son’s name,” I said gently.
She smiled, unfazed. “I liked it. It’s a good name.”
I tried to smile back, brushing off the discomfort as postpartum spontaneity. But something didn’t sit right.
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