Beth’s mouth tightened.

“And that’s supposed to be different?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because then you would have been honest.”

The baby began crying in the kitchen.

Beth immediately turned toward the sound.

Josh called, “I’ve got her.”

She stayed where she was.

I lowered my voice.

“You didn’t want to hear me say it would hurt.”

“No, I didn’t.”

There it was.

Finally.

Beth sat down hard on the arm of the couch.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Then explain it.”

She stared at the floor.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.

“I liked the name before.”

“Before what?”

“Before your Lily died.”

I waited.

“You said it didn’t matter to you until afterward.”

“I said it became more important afterward.”

“Why?”

Beth rubbed both hands over her face.

“Because everyone started acting like the name had disappeared with her.”

I didn’t understand.

She looked at me.

“Mom wouldn’t say it.

Dad changed the subject anytime someone mentioned a Lily on television.

At Christmas, Aunt Susan started telling a story about a coworker named Lily and stopped halfway through because you walked into the room.”

“I hated that too.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you talk to me?”

“Because every conversation about Lily felt like there was only one correct thing to say.”

“That she was my daughter?”

“No.”

Beth stood again.

“That your grief came first.”

The room became very quiet.

Michael shifted beside me.

Beth immediately shook her head.

“I know how that sounds.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“For more than a year, everything in our family was measured against what might hurt you.”

I stared at her.

She continued before I could respond.

“We changed holidays.

Mom stopped talking about babies around you.

When I got pregnant, she asked me to wait before telling you because it was close to your due date anniversary.”

My stomach tightened.

“I never asked her to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you angry with me?”

“I’m not angry that you grieved.”

“It sounds like you are.”

“I’m angry that nobody knew how to have a normal feeling anymore without checking whether it was allowed.”

I shook my head slowly.

“And naming your daughter Lily fixed that?”

“No.”

“Then what were you trying to do?”

Beth opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Josh returned carrying the baby, who had stopped crying.

He looked from Beth to me.

“Maybe this is enough for today.”

He was right.

I picked up my purse.

At the door, Beth said, “I wasn’t trying to replace her.”

I turned around.

“I never thought you were.”

“Then why does it matter this much?”

“Because you used something painful to prove that nobody had to be careful around me anymore.”

Her face changed.

I hadn’t understood it clearly until I said it.

Maybe Beth hadn’t either.

I continued.

“You didn’t choose Lily only because you loved the name.

Part of you wanted the name to become normal again.”

She didn’t answer.

“And instead of asking whether I was ready for that, you decided I needed to be.”

Beth looked down.

Michael opened the door.

Before I left, I looked at my niece sleeping against Josh’s chest.

“I love your daughter,” I said.

Then I looked at Beth.

“But loving her does not make what you did okay.”

This time, Beth didn’t argue.