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, claiming he felt unwell. When we were alone, my mom anxiously urged me to change the name, insisting there was a reason Chris wasn’t an option. Almost 20 years ago, she began, there was another Chris. Someone my family never talked about, someone whose name had been wiped from photo albums, forgotten at birthdays, and whispered about only when they thought I was asleep. “You had...
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