My Best Friend Stole My Dead Mother’s Baby Name. So I Stole Her Husband’s Family Legacy And A $200,000 Trust Fund. Did I Go Too Far?
The Stolen Name
“I know you mentioned Celeste, but Ryan and I just fell in love with it,” Jenna said at her baby shower, her hand on her seven-month bump. “You understand, right? You’re not even pregnant yet.”
I sat there holding the gift I’d brought, a handmade quilt with constellation patterns specifically chosen because Celeste meant heavenly. I’d shared that name with Jenna five years ago, the night my mom died.
Mom had always said if she’d had another daughter, she would have named her Celeste. It was sacred to me. Jenna knew all of this.
“Besides,” Jenna continued, cutting her cake. “You can still use it for a middle name or something.”
The other shower guests shifted uncomfortably. Everyone knew Jenna and I had been inseparable since college. Everyone also knew I’d been trying to conceive for three years while Jenna got pregnant within two months of trying.
“Sure,” I managed to say. “It’s a beautiful name.”
What else could I say? Make a scene at her baby shower? Demand she change her mind? The damage was done.
The Aftermath
Two months later, Baby Celeste was born. Jenna plastered social media with photos.
“Our little star,” she captioned everything, using the celestial theme I’d described to her. The constellation nursery I’d planned, the star-themed monthly photos I’d dreamed about—all of it stolen.
Then, four months after Jenna’s daughter was born, I finally got my positive test. I didn’t tell anyone except my husband, Dean, for the first trimester. Not even Jenna, who texted constantly asking why I was being distant.
The second trimester ultrasound revealed we were having a girl. Dean squeezed my hand.
“What about Eleanor?” he suggested gently. “Your grandmother’s name?”
“Maybe,” I said, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.
A Family Secret
Two weeks later, I ran into Jenna’s mother-in-law, Diane, at the grocery store. We’d met several times at Jenna’s events.
“How’s Jenna?” I asked politely.
Diane’s face tightened. “Fine. Though I’ll never understand why she refused to use my mother’s name. Three generations of tradition broken.”
She shook her head. “Margaret Rose. Every firstborn daughter in our family for 100 years. But Jenna said it was outdated.”
I knew this story. Jenna had ranted about it for years. How Ryan’s family pressured her to continue the tradition, how his grandmother had even offered to pay for college if they used the name. How Diane brought it up every holiday, every birthday, every chance she got. Jenna called it her “nightmare name” because she knew Diane would never let it go.
“Such a beautiful name,” I said carefully. “Full of history.”
Diane’s eyes actually misted. “My mother was Margaret Rose. I’m Margaret Rose, though I go by Diane. Ryan’s sister plans to use it someday, but she’s not even married. The tradition might die with me.”
That evening, I told Dean about the conversation. He looked at me suspiciously.
“You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“Margaret Rose is a beautiful name,” I said innocently. “Classic. Timeless. We could call her Maggie.”
