She’s Named Eva

I named my daughter Eva, after my mom.

I expected my stepmom to smile, maybe get a little teary, and say something polite. Instead, she erupted.

“It should’ve been my name,” she snapped. “I’m the one who raised you!”

I lay in the hospital bed, sore and exhausted, holding this tiny new life, while my stepmother made my daughter’s name about herself. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I just turned to Eva and let it pass.

For weeks, she ignored me. No texts, no calls, no “how are you feeling?” or “how’s the baby?” It hurt more than I expected. We’d always had a complicated relationship, but she had shown up for the practical things—rides, lunches, school paperwork—after my mom died. She’d never be my mother, but she had been there.

Then came a phone call.

I was in the nursery, lights dimmed, gently rocking Eva to sleep. Her warm little body pressed against me, soft breaths brushing my neck. One of those rare quiet moments where everything feels safe.

My phone buzzed. I saw her name and hesitated. “Hello?”

Her voice was sharp, a tone she used when she wanted something.

“Dear,” she said, “your dad doesn’t want you to know this, but…”

I held the phone tighter, patting Eva’s back slower.

“But what?” I asked.

“There’s something he’s hiding,” she said. “It’s about the house. He’s planning to sell it. Your childhood home. Without telling you.”

My stomach sank.