PART 2 — THE NAME SHE NEVER EXPECTED ME TO KNOW
And sometimes you hold onto pain longer than you should.
I stopped reading because the words sounded so much like my mother I could almost hear her voice.
Then I continued.
There is something about my name I never told you properly. Emma is the name everyone knows, but it was not the first name I was given.
My fingers tightened around the paper.
When I was born, my mother named me Camila Elena Reyes.
“Camila,” I whispered.
Andrew leaned closer. “What?”
“My mother’s name wasn’t originally Emma.”
The letter explained that when Mom started school, a teacher decided Camila was too difficult and began calling her Emma. Her father liked the more American-sounding name, so eventually everyone used it.
But her own mother never stopped calling her Camila in private.
Suddenly I remembered my grandmother calling Mom “Mila” when I was little.
I had always thought it was a nickname.
It wasn’t.
Then came the part that broke me.
You once told me that if you had a daughter, you wanted to call her Emma. That touched me more than you know. But Lucia, you do not owe me your daughter’s name.
A tear landed on the paper.
If Emma feels beautiful, use it. If it ever becomes heavy, don’t. And if people ever make my name something to compete over, walk away from the competition.
I almost laughed through my tears.
My mother had been gone eleven months, yet somehow she had answered the very argument tearing our family apart.
Love is not proved by who gets to a name first.
Daniel’s words came back to me.
Paola is further along. Our girl will be born first.
I read the next lines.
If you want to carry something of me forward without carrying the burden, remember Camila. That was the name my mother whispered when she loved me. Maybe someday it can become a name whispered with love again.
Andrew smiled softly.
“Camila.”
And for the first time since Paola had announced Emma, I didn’t feel as if something had been stolen.
I felt as if my mother had given me another door.
But the letter continued.
There is one reason I’m hiding this letter instead of leaving it with the others.
My smile disappeared.
Someone else knows the name Camila.
Paola.
My entire body went cold.
Mom explained that while I had been picking up her medication one afternoon, Paola found an old baptism certificate inside a blue folder and asked about the unfamiliar name.
Mom told her the story because she thought Paola was trying to know her better.
Then I reached a sentence that made me stop again.
She asked whether I ever considered using Camila again. I told her no, but sometimes I wished I had given one of my daughters the name.
“One of my daughters?” I whispered.
Andrew looked at me.
“You don’t have a sister.”
“I know.”
Several words after that sentence had been scratched out so heavily I couldn’t read them.
Then came another revelation.
That afternoon I also gave Paola something.
My emerald ring.
“No.”
Andrew frowned. “What ring?”
“My grandmother’s.”
The square emerald ring with two tiny diamonds had belonged to my grandmother before my mother. Mom wore it almost every day while I was growing up.
After she died, it vanished.
Paola was the one who told me the hospital probably lost it.
“Your mom probably removed it somewhere,” she had said. “You know how confused she was near the end.”
But Mom had not been confused.
The letter said:
I removed the ring because it kept sliding off my finger. I gave it to Paola and asked her to give it directly to you after I was gone.
I felt sick.
She promised she would.
Andrew looked at me.
“Did she?”
“No.”
The final lines were worse.
Maybe she will keep her promise. But something about the way she looked at that ring bothered me. If you never receive it, do not destroy your family fighting over jewelry. Just remember who told you the truth.
Then Mom signed the letter:
Camila Emma Miller.
Not Emma Camila.
Camila Emma.
That was when I understood.
Paola had sat beside my dying mother, learned the secret name she had never told me, accepted an heirloom intended for me, and then months later looked directly into my eyes and announced she was naming her daughter Emma.
Andrew placed the letter on the dresser.
“Don’t call her tonight.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
He gave me a look.
“I was thinking about driving there.”
“That too.”
“I want the ring.”
“And you should have it.”
“I want Daniel to hear her answer.”
Andrew nodded.
“Then don’t warn her. If you call now, she’ll prepare her next lie.”
So for eleven days, I did nothing.
When Paola sent the family chat a photo of a pink blanket embroidered with EMMA, I reacted with a heart.
When she asked everyone to vote on nursery colors, I chose pale green.
When Mrs. Miller wrote, So happy everyone is moving forward, I replied, Me too.
Meanwhile, I searched.
Paola posted nearly everything online, so I scrolled backward through months of photographs.
Then I found it.
Four months after Mom died, Paola had posted a picture from a rooftop restaurant.
Her hand was wrapped around a champagne glass.
On her right ring finger sat a square emerald surrounded by two tiny diamonds.
I knew that ring immediately.
The next morning, I contacted the jeweler who had repaired it two years before Mom died.
He still had the record.
Square Colombian emerald.
Two side diamonds.
Interior engraving:
C.E.R. 1968.
Camila Elena Reyes.
I printed the photograph and kept it with Mom’s letter and the jeweler’s record.
Two weeks later, Mrs. Miller invited everyone over so Paola and Daniel could show us new ultrasound pictures.
I wore a cream dress Mom had bought me before she became sick and her St. Christopher medal around my neck.
In my purse was a white envelope containing the evidence.
Paola spent the afternoon glowing under everyone’s attention.
Then she looked at me.
“And have you two chosen a name yet?”
The whole room seemed to listen.
“I know it might be hard now,” she added sweetly, “since the name you wanted is already taken.”
Andrew reached for my hand.
I smiled.
“It actually helped us choose.”
Her expression flickered.
“Oh?”
“Our daughter’s name will be Camila Elena.”
The room became completely silent.
Paola’s smile vanished.
The color drained from her face.
Her fingers tightened around her glass.
Daniel frowned.
“Camila?”
Mrs. Miller asked whether it came from Andrew’s family.
“No,” I said, watching Paola. “It comes from mine.”
Paola quickly stood.
“Excuse me.”
“Paola.”
She stopped.
I reached into my purse.
“I think you know where the name comes from.”
Daniel looked confused.
“What are you talking about?”
Paola turned around looking almost frightened.
“I have no idea what she means.”
I pulled out Mom’s letter.
“You recognize this?”
“No.”
Too quickly.
Daniel lowered his phone.
“Recognize what?”
“A letter Mom hid in her sewing box.”
His face changed.
“Mom left another letter?”
“Yes. And she wrote it after a conversation with Paola.”
Mrs. Miller stared at her.
“What conversation?”
Paola laughed nervously.
“Lucia, your mother was very sick. She talked about all kinds of things.”
“She talked about Camila.”
Paola’s eyes snapped to mine.
Daniel noticed.
“Who is Camila?”
“Our mother.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
“Her birth name was Camila Elena Reyes.”
His reaction was wrong.
Not surprised enough.
I looked at him.
“You knew.”
He looked away.
My stomach dropped.
“How long?”
“Lucia—”
Paola immediately said, “Daniel, don’t.”
Everyone heard it.
“Don’t what?” he asked.
“Not here.”
“Actually,” I said, “here is perfect.”
I explained that Mom had told Paola her birth name before she died.
Paola crossed her arms.
“So what? Your mother told me something personal. Am I supposed to apologize for spending time with her?”
“No.”
I reached into the envelope.
“You can apologize for this.”
I placed the photograph on the table.
Daniel picked it up.
His face changed instantly.
“Paola.”
“What?”
He pointed at her hand.
“Is that Mom’s ring?”
She shrugged.
“I’ve owned several green rings.”
“No,” I said. “You haven’t.”
I placed the jeweler’s record beside the photograph.
Daniel read the engraving.
“C.E.R.”
“Camila Elena Reyes.”
Mrs. Miller slowly sat down.
Daniel looked at his wife.
“Where did you get that ring?”
Paola’s voice sharpened.
“Your mother gave it to me.”
I had expected the lie, but it still hurt.
“No. She gave it to you to give to me.”
Paola’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“You told us it disappeared at the hospital.”
Daniel slammed his hand against the table.
“Then why did you tell me the hospital lost it?”
Everyone jumped.
Paola stared at him.
“She was dying. She said different things to different people.”
“My mother knew exactly what she was saying.”
“You weren’t with her every second.”
“No. But apparently you were there long enough to take the ring she wanted me to have and learn the private name she hoped I might someday give my daughter.”
Something in Paola changed.
“Oh, please. You think everything about your mother belongs to you.”
Daniel stared at her.
“Paola.”
“I sat with Emma too. I drove her to appointments. I brought meals. I was family.”
“You were.”
“So maybe she wanted me to have something.”
“She wrote that she didn’t.”
Then I looked again at the scratched-out sentence.
Sometimes I wished I had given one of my daughters the name.
One of my daughters.
I looked at Daniel.
“Did Mom ever tell you why she stopped using Camila?”
His face tightened.
Paola whispered, “Lucia, enough.”
Daniel stared at the table.
“How much do you know?” I asked.
He finally looked at me.
“There was another envelope.”
My heartbeat quickened.
“What envelope?”
“The week Mom died, I found it in her nightstand.”
“Who was it for?”
“You.”
My hands went cold.
“Where is it?”
Daniel looked toward Paola.
Her face went pale.
“I gave it to her because she said Mom had asked her to keep the papers together.”
Paola shook her head.
“No.”
Daniel continued.
“Three days later, she told me the envelope was empty.”
“You’re remembering wrong.”
“No,” he said. “I remember exactly.”
I stared at Paola.
“What was inside?”
“I don’t know.”
“Paola.”
“I said I don’t know.”
Then Daniel said something that stopped everyone.
“That’s not what you told me the night you burned it.”
I turned toward him.
“Burned what?”
Paola looked almost gray.
Daniel stared at his wife as if he were finally seeing her clearly.
I gripped Mom’s letter.
“What did Paola burn?”
His voice cracked.
“The letter about Mom’s other daughter.”…
