When Nathan’s wife was about to give birth to his child, his mother handed him an ominous note, instructing him to open it after the baby arrived. Once the baby was born, a long-standing family tradition surfaced as Nathan’s mother demanded the child be named after his grandfather—or else…
The house was quiet and still. But it was that kind of silence that came with a dull sense that something was about to happen. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her gaze fixed on a blank sheet of paper in front of her. She was tapping the table with a pen, lost in thought.
“Mom, what are you doing?” I asked, leaning against the doorway. It was late, and I was tired. My wife, Jenna, was upstairs resting, trying to sleep as much as possible before our baby arrived. She was two days overdue, and we both knew it could be any moment now.
“Just thinking,” my mother replied without looking up.
“Thinking about what?” I pressed.
Finally, she looked up at me, her eyes wide.
“About the baby, Nathan,” she said. “About life. About… many things, actually.”
I nodded, unsure what to say. My mother had always been a bit of a mystery. She was a quiet woman with strong emotions that she rarely shared. If anything, she only shared her feelings with my father, but he had passed away years ago.
She gasped, as if a sudden thought had struck her, and looked down at the paper again. She scribbled something quickly, folded it, and slipped it into an envelope.
“Here,” she said, handing it to me. “Open it as soon as your son is born.”
“What is this? A gift or a prophecy?” I laughed.
My mother only smiled.
“Open it when the time comes,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Before I could ask for more details, I heard Jenna stirring upstairs.
“Nathan?” she called. “I think it’s time.”
The words hit me like a shock of electricity. My son was on his way! I raced upstairs and grabbed the hospital bag. My mother was right behind me, calm and steady, with the envelope still clutched in her hand.
Six hours later, the sound of our baby’s cries filled the delivery room. Jenna was exhausted but beaming with pride as she held our son against her chest. Tears streamed down my face as I looked at them both. He was finally here.
“He’s perfect,” I declared, marveling at our son’s tiny hands and feet.
Jenna smiled.
“What’s his weight?” she asked the nurse. “He’s been in there for a few extra days.”
The nurse glanced at her notes and smiled.
“A happy, healthy baby boy, weighing three kilos and 450 grams, and twenty-four centimeters long! Congratulations, Mom and Dad!”
At that moment, I remembered my mother’s envelope. In the rush to the hospital, I’d slipped it into my back pocket.
The note was simple, just a few words scribbled in my mother’s neat handwriting:
Your son will weigh three kilograms and 450 grams and measure twenty-four centimeters.
“What? How?” I murmured to myself.
“What’s wrong, Nathan?” Jenna asked.
“Nothing at all,” I said, trying to reassure her. “I should probably call my mom.”
I stepped out of the room, my mind spinning. What were the odds? What did my mother know about my son that I didn’t?
“Mom,” I said into the phone. “You were right. You were completely right. How did you know the baby would be like that?”
I heard her take a deep breath on the other end.
“I told you, Nathan, I’m very aware of family things. My grandfather, your great-grandfather, was born with those exact measurements, and ever since, every firstborn has had them too.”
“Why didn’t you ever mention this to me?” I asked.
There was a brief silence, as if my mother was choosing her words carefully.
“I didn’t want to influence you in any way, Nathan,” she said. “But now that the tradition holds true for your son as well, I was thinking…”
“Thinking what?” I asked. Her roundabout way of speaking was beginning to irritate me.
“Perhaps we should name your son Oscar, in memory of my grandfather. It would mean a lot to me and honor him.”
I froze. Jenna and I had already chosen a name.
“Mom, Jen and I have already decided on our son’s name,” I said. “You know that.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “But this feels important. Please consider it.”
Back in the room, I could see Jenna was already suspicious.
“What was that about? Why did you take so long? You haven’t even held Matthew yet.”
I sighed.
“My mother wants us to name him Oscar. After her grandfather. Apparently, it’s a tradition for all firstborns—they all have exactly the same measurements.”
Jenna’s face darkened.
“We already have a name, Nathan,” she said. “We agreed on Matthew after my father.”
“I know, I know!” I exclaimed. “But maybe we could consider it as a middle name or something?”
Before my wife could even settle with the suggestion, her mother, Nora, entered the room, her face beaming with excitement. I wasn’t surprised. She lived about five minutes from the hospital, so I knew she’d come as soon as the baby was born. I was sure Jenna had messaged her while I was talking to my mom.
“Oh, he’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, rushing to take the baby from Jenna.
While she cradled him, Jenna explained the situation.
“Nathan’s mother wants us to name him Oscar. But we’ve already chosen a name.”
Nora’s expression shifted from joy to something more serious.
“Oscar,” she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. “Isn’t that the name of your brother?”
I nodded.
“And my great-grandfather,” I said.
She looked at me sternly. I knew she was thinking of her late husband’s name. We’d decided long before Jenna’s father passed that we would name our child after him.
Just then, my mother entered.
“Let me see baby Oscar,” she said, approaching Nora.
“What?” Jenna said. “His name is Matthew.”
“Your son will be named Oscar, or he will receive not a cent from my estate,” my mother said, her tone completely different from when we spoke on the phone.
“What?” I asked, stunned.
“Our family’s fortune was built by my grandfather. The maple syrup business? All thanks to him. If you don’t honor him by passing down his name, then you don’t deserve his legacy.”
Jenna and I stared at her. Nora held the baby tightly.
This was supposed to be a joyful moment in our lives, but now it felt like a battlefield. I could see Jenna’s frustration boiling over.
“Mom,” I said. “Let’s talk about this…”
“No,” my mother said stubbornly.
Then Jenna turned to me, her eyes blazing.
“Nathan, we agreed on a name. I’m not going to change it just because of a family tradition that’s only coming up now.”
I took a deep breath. I understood what Jenna was saying, but I also understood my mother’s intentions, as misguided as they were.
“Please…” my mother said, her eyes misting. “It would mean so much to me. And it’s not just about the money. It’s about the legacy.”
“What about a compromise?” I suggested. “We use the name we chose as his first name, and Oscar as his middle name.”
Jenna hesitated. I knew she hated being pressured like this.
“Please,” I said softly. “Think of how much it would mean…”
Jenna looked at our baby, who had fallen back asleep in her arms after Nora returned him to her.
“Fine, but only as a middle name.”
My mother and I sighed in relief. At least for now, the battle was over.
“I hope he has my grandfather’s eyes,” my mother said.
“You’ll see when he wakes up,” Jenna said, extending her hand.
When I looked at my family, I felt relieved that everything seemed fine for now. But I couldn’t shake a strange sense of unease. I still had the note in my pocket, the one where my mother had somehow predicted Matthew’s exact weight and height.
But I suppose it’s just a reminder that some family traditions run deeper than we’ll ever understand.
What would you have done?