When I was pregnant with my first child, I wanted the name I chose to mean something deeper than just a pretty sound. My late mother was a painter — whimsical, artistic, and full of dreams — and before she passed away, she shared a very specific wish. She wanted her children’s first initials to spell out L-O-V-E as a tribute to how much she believed in love.
Mom didn’t get to complete it. She died suddenly, leaving me, my two siblings, and a legacy I wanted to honor. As a little girl I’d asked her once what would happen if the family never completed the pattern. She smiled and said someone would finish it eventually — even if it wasn’t her. That promise stayed with me all these years.
So when my partner and I welcomed our baby girl, naming her Elise felt like the right choice — her E completed the word we’d planned long ago. It wasn’t just a name; it was a tribute to Mom’s memory and her artistic spirit.
But that’s when the drama began. A few weeks before I gave birth, my father and his new wife — who was once his mistress — announced they were having a baby too. And guess what name they planned to use? Emilio.
My sister and I were horrified. We confronted our dad privately, explaining that Mom’s dream was sacred to us — that using the same letter for their baby with his mistress felt wrong, especially given how that relationship began. My father shut us down, saying it was best to have all the children in the same generation share that tribute. He even suggested Mom would have wanted it.
I tried to let it go — until a couple of weeks before my delivery, the news came that they weren’t having a boy after all. That’s when I made my decision. If Elise was going to be born first… I would name her Elise. And I did — before they had the chance to claim it.
Suddenly, my dad and his wife exploded with anger. My stepmother accused me of “stealing” the name and disrespecting their future child. My father was furious that I’d acted before they could, calling it petty and inconsiderate. Some relatives even called me troublemaking.
Their social-media posts about “the real E for 2024” and ultrasound captions only made things worse. Instead of celebrating a birth, our family’s chat thread turned into a battleground.
Yet I stood firm. I wasn’t choosing the name because of ego — but because it meant something, something much bigger than a family squabble. My sister supports me privately, even if she won’t say it out loud. My aunt and uncle call it dramatic — but they manage to avoid bringing it up directly.
At the end of the day, I look at my daughter’s name — Elise — and I know I completed a promise to someone I loved deeply. I had to choose what felt right in my heart, even when everyone else said otherwise.
Some say it was petty. Others say I honored a legacy. But only one thing is certain: our family will never see that moment the same way again.
