I used to believe there was nothing my sister and I did not share.
Growing up, Maribel was not just my younger sister. She was my shadow, my echo, my safe place. We were only two years apart, close enough in age that our lives braided together naturally and without effort. Secrets never survived long between us. They dissolved in whispered conversations under blankets, in late night phone calls, and in notes passed across messy kitchen tables while our mother cooked dinner.
When Maribel had her first crush at fifteen, I knew before her best friend did. When she failed her first driving test, she cried into my shoulder in the parking lot, mascara streaking down her cheeks. When she got her first job offer, she called me before she called our parents.
And when her college boyfriend shattered her heart, she showed up at my apartment at three in the morning, shoes in her hand and eyes swollen, asking only if she could sleep beside me because being alone felt unbearable.
We were not just sisters. We were each other’s emotional archives.
So when Maribel told me she was pregnant, I assumed, without even thinking about it, that I would be part of every detail.
I was there when she chose paint swatches for the nursery, holding them up to the light while she debated between “warm cloud” and “linen white.” I listened patiently as she weighed cloth diapers versus disposables. I laughed as she complained about swollen ankles and sent her articles about prenatal yoga she never read.
I went with her to doctor’s appointments when her husband, Rowan, was stuck at work. I rubbed her back when nausea hit in public. I was ready, eager even, to help her imagine her child.
Except when it came to one thing.
The name.
It started innocently enough. We were sitting in our usual café, the one with chipped mugs and a chalkboard menu that never changed. Maribel was cradling her belly, absently stirring her decaf.
“So,” I said casually, already smiling, “have you narrowed down names yet? I’ve got a whole list.”
She looked up and smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “We’re still deciding.”
I laughed. “You’re eight months pregnant, Mari. You have to have favorites. Are you thinking classic, something from the family, or totally modern?”
She took a slow sip of her coffee, then set the cup down with deliberate care. “We’re still figuring it out.”
There it was. The tone I recognized instantly. Polite. Final. An invisible wall.
I blinked, confused. “Okay, but you’ll tell me when you do, right?”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second too long. “Of course.”
But days passed. Then weeks.
Every time I sent her name ideas, she responded with the same vague message. We haven’t settled yet. There was no excitement, no feedback, and no playful arguing the way we used to share.
At first, I told myself I was being dramatic. Pregnancy was exhausting. Maybe Rowan had strong opinions. Maybe they wanted to wait until the baby was born.
But then the cracks started to show.
I went shopping with one of our cousins and casually mentioned that Maribel was being oddly secretive about the name. My cousin’s smile froze.
“Oh,” she said, glancing away. “Right.”
That was my first real warning.
At the baby shower, Rowan’s mother hugged me and said, “You’ll understand once she’s here,” when I joked about the mystery name. The reaction was strange, almost rehearsed.
Later, I ran into Rowan’s younger brother at the gym. When I asked him if he was excited to meet his niece, he nodded enthusiastically. Then he nearly dropped his dumbbell when I added, “Still no name, though.”
Everyone knew.
Everyone except me.
Even our mother started acting strange. One evening, while we were clearing dishes after dinner, I brought it up.
“It’s weird,” I said. “Every time I mention the baby’s name, people act like I’ve said something I shouldn’t.”
Mom laughed too quickly. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not,” I said, watching her avoid my eyes. “You know, don’t you?”
She picked up her plate and headed for the sink. “The dishes won’t wash themselves.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “Mom. Please. Why am I the only one she won’t tell?”
She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Maribel asked me not to. She thought you’d react badly.”
That felt like a slap. “React badly? When have I ever mocked her or hurt her on purpose?”
Mom hesitated. Then, quietly, she said, “Because the name is Tuu.”
I stared at her. “As in too?”
She nodded nervously. “Spelled T U U. Pronounced like the number two, but softer.”
The room tilted.
Suddenly, everything made sense, and nothing did.
Two years earlier, Maribel had called me in the middle of the night, her voice broken. “I lost the baby,” she had whispered.
No one else knew about that pregnancy. Only me.
I remembered finding her sitting fully clothed in the bathtub, the water long gone cold, sobbing so hard she could not breathe. I remembered holding her while she whispered, “I didn’t even get to name her.”
This was not creativity.
It was grief.
And somehow, that made it worse.
That evening, I drove to her house without calling ahead. I found her in the nursery, folding impossibly small clothes with careful precision.
“You’re really naming her Tuu?” I asked.
She did not look up. “Yes.”
“Because she’s your second baby?”
She placed the clothes away gently. “Because she’s both,” she said quietly. “The one we lost and the one we’re holding. It’s how we honor her.”
Something inside me snapped.
“It’s not honoring,” I said. “It’s a burden. You’re tying her entire identity to a loss she had nothing to do with.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re turning her into a memorial. What happens when she asks why her name sounds like a number? When she learns the truth?”
Maribel turned to face me, her eyes hard. “This is our choice. Not yours.”
“Then I’ll do what I have to,” I said. “I’ll protect her.”
I left shaking, furious, and terrified.
For weeks, I carried that fear with me. I imagined the child growing up under the shadow of grief, always defined by what came before.
Then the baby came early.
I barely made it to the hospital. When I entered the room, everything was quiet, holy, and new.
Maribel looked exhausted but peaceful. Rowan was crying openly.
“Do you want to hold her?” Maribel asked.
The nurse placed the baby in my arms, and everything changed.
She was not a number. She was not a symbol.
She was warm and alive and wholly herself.
Then the nurse asked, “What’s her name?”
Maribel looked at me.
“Her name is Alina,” she said.
I burst into tears.
“Why?” I whispered.
“Because you fought for her,” she said. “And because she deserves to be her own person.”
I held my niece closer, feeling something settle inside me.
She would not walk alone.
And neither would we.
