I couldn’t have kids. Not “maybe someday.” Not “we’ll keep trying.” Just… couldn’t. Years of infertility had taught me to stop dreaming about cribs, tiny socks, and lullabies. I avoided the baby aisle, stopped imagining what my own nursery would look like, and let go of every “when” I used to whisper to myself in hope.
So when my little sister got pregnant, I threw myself into her joy like it was the only thing I had left. I planned the gender reveal. I bought the crib, the stroller, the tiny duck pajamas that made me cry in the store aisle like an idiot. I wanted to be there for every step.
“You’re going to be the best aunt ever,” she said, hugging me so tight I could barely breathe.
I wanted that to be true more than almost anything in my life.
I thought a baby might straighten her out.
My sister and I have always been… complicated. She had a knack for bending reality to suit her, from little white lies as a kid to dramatic tales as a teenager, and by adulthood, it was just her nature: fragile, dramatic, always the victim, always needing attention.
I thought maybe Mason, her baby, would change her.
But the moment he was born, everything flipped.
At the hospital, I stood next to her bed, flowers in hand, heart hammering.
“He’s perfect,” she whispered, eyes shining like she’d seen a miracle.
“Can I hold him?” I asked, voice trembling with hope.
Her grip tightened on the hospital blanket. Her eyes darted to my hands like they were contaminated.
“Not yet. RSV season,” she said quickly.
“I washed my hands. I can sanitize again,” I said.
“I know,” she rushed. “Just… not yet.”
My husband stood behind me, hand on my shoulder, calm. “We can wait,” he murmured.
So I waited.
Next visit, “He’s sleeping.”
Next, “He just ate.”
I masked, sanitized, distanced. I brought meals, diapers, wipes, formula—whatever it took to show I was helpful, careful, devoted.
Three weeks passed.
And still, I hadn’t held him once.
Then, I saw a photo online: our cousin, smiling, cradling Mason on my sister’s couch. No mask, no “RSV season” excuse, just baby cuddles.
My stomach plummeted.
The next day, I called my mom.
“So… everyone’s holding him. Except me?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Well… he’s such a good snuggler,” my mom said. “He fell asleep on me right away.”
I froze. “You held him?”
“Your sister needed a shower,” she said, casually.
“So… everyone’s holding him. Except me,” I repeated, voice sharp.
“Honey, your sister’s just anxious,” Mom said carefully.
Anxious with me. Not with anyone else.
Even the neighbor was posting about dropping off dinner and getting “baby cuddles.”
I texted my sister.
Me: Why am I the only one you won’t let hold Mason?
Sister: Don’t start. I’m protecting him.
Me: From me?
Sister: You’re around people. It’s different.
Last Thursday, I drove over without texting. I work from home. I’m not “around people.” But I didn’t argue. I felt something heavy and bitter building in my chest.
Me: I’m coming by tomorrow. I’m holding him.
Sister: Don’t threaten me.
Me: It’s not a threat. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to hold him if I want to be there for him?
She left me on read.
The next day, I tried the doorknob. Unlocked. My body moved before my brain did.
The house smelled like baby lotion and laundry that never got folded. Upstairs, the shower ran. And then, I heard Mason. That desperate, piercing newborn cry that isn’t “annoyed,” it’s “I need someone.”
I ran.
He was in the bassinet, alone, face red-purple, fists clenched, screaming like he’d been abandoned. I scooped him up. The second he hit my chest, his cry became tiny hiccups. His tiny fingers curled around my shirt.
“Oh, buddy,” I whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
And then I saw the Band-Aid on his thigh.
It was peeling at the corner. Instinctively, I lifted it. My stomach sank. It wasn’t a shot. Not blood. Not a medical mark. Something hidden. Something not meant to be seen.
At that moment, footsteps thundered down the stairs. My sister appeared, towel around her, hair dripping, eyes wide. She saw Mason in my arms. She saw the lifted Band-Aid.
“Please… just put him down,” she whispered, panic in her voice.
“What is this?” I asked, voice shaking.
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” she stammered.
“It’s nothing,” she added too fast.
I laughed bitterly. “It’s not nothing.”
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” she repeated, desperate.
I held Mason tighter without thinking. “Why did you keep me away? Why me? Everyone else gets to hold him, but not me.”
“It’s germs,” she said, voice trembling.
“Stop,” I snapped. “Don’t insult me. Whatever that is, it’s not his fault.”
She snatched the blanket and tucked him in, hiding him from my eyes.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
I stepped back, heart pounding, waiting for her excuse, her confession, her drama.
“I’ll call someone else. I don’t care how mad you get,” she added.
That broke something in me. I grabbed the bag of baby caps I brought.
“If you ever leave him screaming alone again, I’ll call Mom. Or I’ll call someone else. I don’t care how mad you get,” I warned.
“Don’t tell me how to parent,” she shot back.
“Then don’t make me,” I said, and walked out.
My hands shook in the car. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. My mind replayed the Band-Aid, the hidden mark. Nothing made sense. Nothing fit.
When I got home, my husband hummed casually in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s the baby?”
“Just tired,” I lied.
I watched him carefully. He kept his phone face-down, washed his hands longer than usual, ran sudden errands, checked me secretly. Something clicked in me. I couldn’t ignore it.
That night, I did something I never thought I would. I went into the bathroom, opened his drawer, and took his hairbrush. I pulled strands of hair, wrapped them in tissue, and ordered a DNA test.
Every day, I played normal. I cooked. I smiled. I laughed at the right moments. But inside, I counted. I waited. I needed the truth.
The test results came on a Tuesday. I opened them in my car, away from my house, and read the first line… then the next… until the percentage blurred my vision. My chest tightened.
The mark under the Band-Aid had a name. A reason.
I walked into my house that night, phone in hand, and faced my husband.
“I saw the mark under the Band-Aid,” I said.
His face went gray.
“Because I saw it,” I repeated, louder. “I saw the mark under the Band-Aid.”
He made the call to my sister. All they could do was stammer, “I swear, it was never supposed to go this way! I would have told you!”
Years of lies, a hidden affair, a secret pregnancy. The anger, the betrayal, the stolen trust—I felt it all surge.
I was going to miss Mason. But I had to focus on myself.
I cut contact with my sister. I got the divorce papers ready. The baby that was supposed to bring us together had done the opposite.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt the power of seeing the truth, no matter how ugly.