Just like my daughter herself, her name was a divine gift.
My middle brother Richard is one of my absolute best friends in this world. An all-around incredible human. Loyal. Funny. Deeply observant. The kind of brother who shows up exactly as he is.
Richard has Down syndrome.
For me, that is not a tragedy or a limitation. It is simply a fact about someone I love. While it shapes certain parts of how he moves through the world, he thrives. He lives fully. Ask him MLB or wrestling trivia, he has it locked. Ask him about 90s and early 2000s sitcoms, he’s your guy. And at the family parties he is the first person cutting up to a merengue, or his favorite, reggaeton.
His hobbies take up a lot of his time, so I am fairly certain he was not browsing baby name websites the way I was. Matter of fact, I know he wasn’t. His reading capabilities are limited, and he is still learning how to navigate the internet on his phone or smart TV. Sometimes he calls me when he wants to save a search term, and together we sound it out slowly so he can type it in. My phone will ring and he will say, “Sister.” “Yes bro bro, what’s up?” “How do you spell California Dreams?” “Let’s sound it out, bro.”
We definitely were not writing down baby girl names.
But I still wanted his input.
“Bro bro, what should I name my baby?”
I would ask him over and over.
Inevitably he would give me something wrestling adjacent. Some wid ish. “Chyna. Trish Stratus.” “What bro, those are trash, try again.” It was my equivalent of the tough pep talk in the huddle when the team was playing like garbage. “Come on, get your head in the game,” followed by a slap on the ass to usher the player back onto the court. All due respect to the wrestling greats, but for baby names those were weak. Bro bro knows his little sis calls a spade a spade.
This went on for weeks. I loved his excitement about her. I wanted him to feel connected to her before she was even born. I wanted that bond forming early so it would carry beyond my womb.
So I kept asking, expecting nothing.
And then I got everything.
Again I said, “Bro bro, what should I name my daughter?”
He paused. “Sis, I got it.”
I waited.
“Name her Emmelina.”
I froze.
“Whoa bro… I love it.”
It was soft and strong at the same time. Feminine without being frilly. Unique but timeless. I ran it by my husband and he was immediately on board. And after that, I wasn’t trying to hear any alternatives. Not from ANYONE.
My brother named my daughter.
That is a source of immense pride for him.
When I ask him how he came up with it, he taps his forehead and says, “I am smart, sis.” Yes you are, bro.
There is something sacred about the way it arrived. About the fact that a man who was not researching, not comparing lists, not scrolling forums, simply knew.
Sometimes we overthink the most important things. Sometimes we search and search. And sometimes the answer is placed right in front of you by someone who loves you deeply. Emmelina.
A name chosen in joy. A name given with pride. A name that came exactly the way she did. As a gift.
