After my son was born, I told my parents I’d chosen the name Chris. My dad’s face went pale, and my mom’s forced smile didn’t hide her discomfort. Moments later, my dad excused himself, saying he felt unwell. When we were alone, my mom anxiously urged me to choose another name, insisting there was a reason Chris wasn’t an option. Almost twenty years ago, she explained, someone close to our family—also named Chris—had been part of a painful chapter in their lives. They never spoke of it again, and the name carried memories they had tried to leave behind.
At first, I felt defensive. Naming my son had been an emotional, joyful choice. I had imagined the name, pictured him growing up with it, and said it out loud a thousand times. But as I listened, I saw something I hadn’t expected in my mother’s eyes: not control, but genuine fear of reopening old wounds. She wasn’t trying to take anything away from me—she was trying to protect a peace she and my father had earned after years of healing.
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