At 28, I learned I couldn’t have kids due to ovarian failure, a pain my sister Karina shared with me. I’d always dreamed of naming my daughter Soraya, a name I loved since I was 16. But when Karina named her newborn Soraya without telling me, I was devastated. She dismissed my hurt, saying, “You weren’t going to use it anyway.”
During the confrontation, my mom’s cut-off outburst—“Don’t you know that…”—hinted at a secret. Later, she revealed I was adopted, named Soraya at birth by my biological mother, Nilofer. Stunned, I tracked Nilofer down
to her flower shop. She shared her story: pregnant at 19 by a married man, she chose my adoptive parents but asked them to keep my name. They didn’t. Months later, when Karina’s Soraya fell ill, I rushed to the hospital, reconciling with my sister. Now, I see my niece weekly, call her “little jewel,” and visit Nilofer monthly. The name wasn’t mine to give but to remember. Life’s surprises—pain, betrayal, truth—taught me to stay open to unexpected connections.
