I can’t have children. Not “maybe one day.” Not “just keep trying.” Just… no.
After years of infertility, I stopped imagining nurseries. I stopped lingering in baby aisles. I stopped saying “when.”
So when my younger sister got pregnant, I poured myself into it. I hosted the gender reveal. I bought the crib, the stroller, the tiny duck pajamas that made me cry in the store. She hugged me and said, “You’re going to be the best aunt ever.” I wanted that to be true more than anything.
My sister and I have always had a complicated relationship. She’s dramatic, often bends the truth, and thrives on attention. Still, I hoped motherhood would ground her.
Then Mason was born.
At the hospital, I stood beside her bed, heart racing. “Can I hold him?”
Her arms tightened around the baby. “Not yet. It’s RSV season.”
I offered to sanitize again. I waited.
The next visit? “He’s sleeping.”
After that? “He just ate.”
Then? “Maybe next time.”
I wore a mask. I brought groceries. Dropped off diapers. Cooked meals. Three weeks passed.
Meanwhile, I saw photos online—cousins, neighbors, even my mom holding Mason. No mask. No hesitation.
I texted her.
Me: Why am I the only one who can’t hold him?
Her: I’m protecting him.
Me: From me?
She left me on read.
One afternoon, I drove over without texting. Her car was in the driveway. The house was known to me—we’d always come and go freely.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, I heard the shower running upstairs. And then I heard Mason crying—not the fussy kind, but the desperate, newborn kind.
He was alone in his bassinet, red-faced and wailing. I picked him up. He quieted instantly against my chest, tiny fingers clutching my shirt.
That’s when I noticed the Band-Aid on his thigh.
It wasn’t in a spot typical for a recent shot. It looked placed there… intentionally.
The corner was peeling. I lifted it gently.
And everything in me went cold.
It wasn’t an injury. It wasn’t something temporary.
It was a birthmark.
A very specific one.
The same one my husband has.
Footsteps thundered down the stairs. My sister appeared, hair wet, face drained of color when she saw the Band-Aid lifted.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she whispered.
“Why wouldn’t you let me hold him?” I asked.
“It’s germs,” she insisted weakly.
But her fear wasn’t about germs. It was about recognition.
I left without screaming. Without accusing. Just… quiet.
At home, I began watching.
My husband washing his hands too long.
His phone always face-down.
“Quick errands” he hadn’t run in months.
The way he looked at me like he was measuring what I knew.
I ordered a DNA test.
Two days later, I opened the results in my car.
The percentage confirmed what my gut already understood.
The mark under that Band-Aid had a name.
Paternity.
That night, I held up the results to my husband.
His face went pale.
“I saw the birthmark,” I said. “I know why she wouldn’t let me hold him.”
Eventually, the truth came out. The affair had been going on for years. The pregnancy wasn’t planned—but it wasn’t impossible either.
I made him call her and explain. The excuses tumbled out, but none of them changed the reality.
I cut contact with my sister. Filed for divorce.
I will miss Mason. That part still hurts.
I thought becoming an aunt would bring my sister and me closer. Instead, it revealed the truth that had been hiding in plain sight.
And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.
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