My sister wouldn’t let me hold her newborn for three weeks, while everyone else got baby cuddles. Then I walked in unannounced, heard Mason screaming alone, and picked him up. The Band-Aid on his thigh was peeling, and the second I lifted the corner, my sister came running, begging me to stop.
I can’t have kids.
Not “maybe someday.” Not “keep trying.” Just… can’t.
After years of infertility, I stopped letting myself picture a nursery.
I stopped pausing in the baby aisle.
I stopped saying “when.”
So when my little sister got pregnant, I poured everything I had into her.
I threw the gender reveal. I bought the crib.
The stroller. The tiny duck pajamas that made me tear up in a store aisle like an idiot.
She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.
“You’re going to be the best aunt ever,” she whispered.
I wanted that to be true more than I wanted almost anything.
My sister and I have always been… complicated.
She’s always had a talent for bending reality until it suited her.
Little lies as a kid, bigger ones as a teen, and by adulthood it was just her personality: fragile, dramatic, always the victim, always needing attention.
But I thought a baby would straighten her out.
Then Mason was born.
And everything flipped like a switch.
At the hospital, I stood next to her bed with flowers and food.
“He’s perfect,” she said, staring at him like he was a miracle.
I smiled, heart pounding.
Her grip tightened.
Her eyes flicked to my hands like they were dirty.
“Not yet,” she said. “It’s RSV season.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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