Diana Miller and Daphne "Saza" Pouletsos. —Courtesy of Diana Miller.In 2001, I lost the world I knew. Twenty-five years later, I’m accidentally rebuilding it. “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 think you’re right,” I said, smiling back at her impish grin that suggested we were pulling one over on the world. I had picked her up from school and was indulging her request to buy fake nails for our sleepover. She gripped my hand tightly, as a daughter would. We proudly walked through the automatic sliding doors, as one.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. Birthdays, ballet recitals, and school performances anchored my calendar. Playing hide-and-seek before dinner, getting ice cream on a Tuesday, and letting her empty my closet for dress-up replaced late-night calls, breaking news, and media dinners. Recently, when my sister traveled abroad for work, my niece wanted assurance that her “substitute mother” would be around. The phrase made me laugh, but also squeezed my heart like a vise. Because I know what it’s like to have a substitute mother. 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. Saza, as we called her, was my mother’s younger sister. Her nickname was a name given by my oldest cousin, Dayna, whose toddler tongue couldn’t say “Aunt Daphne.” 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. Saza knew how to make a mundane moment sparkle. Her sense of humor was the first thing to enter the room, and sleepovers at her house meant staying up late to watch Saturday Night Live. In my young mind, “The Church Lady” and “Coffee Talk” were extensions of my aunt (it helped that she also had a New Jersey accent). Shimmying our shoulders like “Sprockets” was like a special inside joke. Her laugh could sweeten the sourest mood.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.I was studying abroad in the fall of 2001. Classes at University College London hadn’t started yet, so I was traipsing around Europe with a sorority sister. We were at a restaurant in Barcelona when a waiter expressed dismay about “what happened at the World Trade Center.” “My aunt works there,” I told my friend. But I was sure she was fine. How could she not be?Still, I found a payphone and called home. My father tried to convey a stoic message: “We don’t know anything yet, we’re calling all the hospitals.”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.As a journalist, I know the questions that are typical in the wake of a tragedy. How old were they? Did she or he have kids? It’s natural. We’re inclined to measure loss by what, or rather, who, is left behind. But the true impact of a person’s life is not reflected in titles or preconceived roles. Every one of the 2,977 victims on 9/11 had a world that was wide and meaningful. You may not know the details of that world, but someone does. And they mourn not just the loss of that person, but the moments they made possible. For me, saying “I lost my aunt on September 11th” doesn’t begin to tell the story. My loss isn’t constricted by norms. Her legacy doesn’t fit neatly into a headline. 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. While I could never fill her slippers, I feel Saza with me every day. She’s there when my niece and I are feeding the stray cat in my backyard. She’s there when we’re laughing at the Sunday comics. She’s there as we get dolled up in fancy dresses to go to the neighborhood pizza place. I am alive in these moments because she lived.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.