I met a girl at a party who happened to have the exact same name as my mother—a rare name. I joked about the coincidence and didn’t think much of it.
Fast forward a year, we were dating.
When I finally met her parents, her dad kept insisting he had “met me before.” I was sure he was mistaken… until a few days later, my girlfriend sat beside me, stunned, and told me what he’d realized.
Years earlier, he had attended a small community storytelling event—one I had spoken at. I’d stood on stage and shared a five-minute story about my late mother, her strength, her dreams, and the unusual name she carried with pride.
He remembered me vividly because that same rare name was the one he and his wife had given their daughter.
My girlfriend and I just stared at each other, realizing that her father had unknowingly heard me speak about my mom long before she and I ever met—before we even knew each other existed. It felt like our lives had brushed past each other quietly, waiting for the right moment to connect.
A week later, her father invited me over and handed me an old notebook filled with stories he had written. He said he started writing regularly after hearing me speak that night.
“You reminded me,” he said, “that stories keep people alive.”
Sitting beside my girlfriend, holding that worn notebook, I realized our story hadn’t begun when we met.
It had begun the night I spoke her mother’s name into a room of strangers—and one of them carried it home.
