“I think people think you’re my mother,” my six-year-old niece whispered to me as we walked through the parking lot toward CVS.
I don’t have children of my own, which means my niece is the beneficiary of my pent-up maternal love and obsession. She was born in 2020, and four months later, I left my job as the executive producer of a morning news show in New York and moved to Los Angeles. It was the first time I’d disrupted my ambitious climb up the media ladder, and when my feet landed in the California sand, my role as an aunt became the foundation of my daily life.
Daphne Pouletsos worked for the insurance company AON, her office was located in the south tower of the World Trade Center, and she was among the 2,977 victims killed in the 9/11 attacks.
Although Saza lived in New Jersey and I grew up in Virginia, she was a constant light in my life. We drove up north for summers and holidays, and Saza would visit us throughout the year. Once, she hid in the back of our Chrysler minivan when my mom picked my siblings and me up from school, and she revealed herself by suddenly piping into the conversation. We squealed with excitement.
But the best moments with her were always Christmas morning. Saza would come to my grandparents’ house first thing in the morning, the jingle bell on the back door announcing her arrival. She’d sit in the big, blue upholstered wingback chair, her feet tucked under her like a teenager, eyes shining behind her ‘90s rimless glasses. I can’t separate the thrill I got from opening a new baby doll from the joy I got from showing it to her. She would coo with enthusiasm, amplifying my delight. One time, she gave all of her nieces and nephews thick black plastic glasses with rubber banana noses attached. It was the silliest gift I’ve ever received, and one of the best. We took a picture, all piled on top of each other: laughing, goofy, family. Her presence carried a promise that everything was okay. As a kid, I assumed it always would be.
Daphne Pouletsos' nieces nieces and nephews. —Courtesy of Diana Miller.“My aunt works there,” I told my friend. But I was sure she was fine. How could she not be?
Then I saw the footage on the TV in our hostel. I couldn’t believe that she could be one of the victims. Not Saza.
How old was she? Forty-seven. No, she didn’t have kids, but she had us. Twenty-five years later, I am 45, and I have my niece. Saza was the person who gave me the gift of knowing what an aunt can be.
I wonder what else her life would have included if she had kept living it. What it would be like to have her visit me in Los Angeles. How she, my sister, and I would stay up late watching SNL together. How much love she would pour into life’s middle moments.
And most of all, what joy she would take in getting to know my niece, her namesake: Daphne.
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