My mom showed up to my baby's baptism and told the priest I was lying about her name…

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My mom showed up to my baby's baptism and told the priest I was lying about her name

When I announced my pregnancy, my mom's first words weren't congratulations. They were, "Finally, little Barbara can carry on the family name."

I hadn't even told her the gender yet.

"Mom, we don't know if it's a girl," I said carefully.

"Oh, it's a girl. I can tell. And she'll be Barbara, just like me."

My husband and I had already chosen names we loved. For a girl: Luna. For a boy: Atlas. Names that meant something to us, not just family obligation.

When I gently mentioned this, her face went stone cold.

"You're joking, right? I've been telling everyone at church about baby Barbara. I already ordered the baptism dress with her name embroidered on it."

She'd ordered a dress. With a name. For a baby that wasn't even born yet.

"Mom, you can't just decide our baby's name."

"I'm not deciding. I'm continuing tradition. My mother named me after her mother. It's what we do."

But here's the thing—I knew that wasn't true. My grandmother's name was Rose, not Barbara. I'd seen the old family photos with names written on the back.

When I brought this up, she got defensive.

"Well, Rose was her middle name. Barbara was her... confirmation name."

That made no sense, but I let it slide. Until the baby shower.

She'd invited her entire church congregation. Fifty people I'd never met, all cooing over "baby Barbara's" gifts. The cake had the name written in pink frosting. The decorations all said "Welcome Barbara."

I was mortified. These people thought my baby's name was already decided.

"Mom, why did you tell everyone the name was Barbara?"

"Because it is, honey. Stop being difficult."

That night, I called my great-aunt Helen. She's ninety-two and remembers everything.

"Aunt Helen, what was grandma's real name?"

"Rose Marie, dear. Why?"

"Did she ever go by Barbara?"

Helen laughed. "Barbara? Heavens no. Your mother made that name up when she was sixteen. Said Rose was too old-fashioned. She legally changed it senior year of high school. Caused quite the family drama."

My blood ran cold.

My mom had completely fabricated this "family tradition." She'd lied about grandma's name. Lied about the tradition. All to manipulate me into naming my daughter after her fake name.

When I confronted her, she didn't even look ashamed.

"So what? Barbara is a beautiful name. Better than whatever trendy nonsense you picked."

"You lied about grandma. You made up an entire tradition."

"I improved the tradition. Rose was boring. Barbara has class."

"You can't just rewrite family history to get what you want."

"Watch me," she said coldly. "That baby will be Barbara whether you like it or not."

The entitlement was breathtaking.

When Luna was born—beautiful, perfect Luna—my mom refused to hold her.

"That's not her name," she said flatly. "I won't acknowledge a child with such a ridiculous name."

She left the hospital without meeting her granddaughter.

For three months, she told everyone the baby's "real name" was Barbara and that I was just going through a phase. She bought gifts with "Barbara" embroidered on them. Sent cards addressed to "Baby Barbara."

Even introduced herself to strangers as "Barbara's grandmother."

The final straw came at Luna's baptism. My mom stood up during the ceremony and loudly corrected the priest.

"Excuse me, Father, the baby's name is Barbara, not Luna."

The entire church turned to stare. The priest looked confused. I wanted to disappear.

That's when I realized she wasn't just stubborn. She was delusional.

I cut contact that day. Changed our phone number. Blocked her on everything.

Luna is two now. She calls herself "Luna like the moon" and lights up every room she enters.

But here's the truth: she chose a fake name over a real relationship.

And that's her loss, not ours.