My mother, Rita, told me she chose my name when she was 12-years-old and a small, poor girl being raised by a single father in a working class neighborhood in an industrial town in northern England. She got a scholarship to attend a fancy private British school thanks to her good grades and the charity of a civic organization that paid for two promising but underprivileged girls to attend the school each year. She did not interact much with the other students but very much looked up to a nurturing, tall and athletic older student who was 16 and was named Fiona, which is not an unusual name in England. She vowed to name her future daughter Fiona. She later met and married my father, they moved to America, and they had 2 sons who were named after his family members. Since her husband had been one of three boys and they had two boys already, both assumed their third and last child would also be a boy and had agreed to name me Michael, which is my father’s middle name. To her surprise and, as she always told me, great joy, I am a girl and she was able to use the name she had chosen long ago. I turned out to be tall and athletic as well, and thanks to her hard work and endless efforts on my behalf, was able to attend some fancy schools myself. She died too soon 7 years ago of ovarian cancer, and I named my daughter who was born a year later, Ava Rita.