Violetta. Purple, it meant. Some of her more tried and true American friends, those whose families had been Americans for generations, laughed a little about it sometimes.
“So fancy, so Italian,” they teased. “Why not just Violet?”
Violetta always smiled with them, for she knew they meant well. It wasn’t as odd as other names, but it had an immigrant flair to it. She loved her name though, loved its femininity and uniqueness, loved its ethnic connections and the beauty of the color it represented.
She only wished once a month it was a saint name.