I divorced my husband, Soren, after he cheated, and I swore I’d never even say his name again. So when my sister told me she wanted to name her son Soren, it felt like reopening a wound I’d fought hard to close.
I begged her to change it. To me, that name wasn’t just a name—it carried betrayal, heartbreak, and months of healing. But Mira stood her ground. She said she loved the name and wanted her son to grow up strong.
We stopped speaking for weeks. I felt betrayed all over again—this time by my own sister. When she went into labor, though, I went to the hospital without hesitation. I held her hand through the pain and met my nephew just after sunrise.
Mira apologized for hurting me, but said she still wanted the name. I agreed, even though it still hurt.
The weeks that followed were hard. I loved my nephew, but every time I heard his name, my stomach twisted. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t let a name control my life. I went back to therapy and started letting go of the guilt and anger I’d been carrying.
Slowly, the name lost its sting. One day at the park, I said it out loud without flinching. And I smiled.
My nephew was giving that name a new meaning—one built on love, not loss. And for the first time in a long time, I finally felt free.
