I can’t have kids.
Not “maybe someday.” Not “keep trying.”
Just… can’t.
“You’re going to be the best aunt ever.”
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.”
I wanted that to be true more than I wanted almost anything.
I thought a baby would straighten her out.
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.
“Can I hold him?”
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. “Can I hold him?”
Her grip tightened. Her eyes flicked to my hands like they were dirty.
“Not yet. It’s RSV season.”
“I washed. I can sanitize again.”
So I waited.
“I know,” she rushed. “Just… not yet.”
My husband stood behind me and did that calming-hand-on-my-shoulder thing. “We can wait.”
So I waited.
Next visit?
“He’s sleeping.”
Next?
“He just ate.”
I wore a mask.
Next?
“Maybe next time.”
I tried to be respectful. I kept my distance. I wore a mask. I sanitized like I was going into surgery. I brought meals. I did grocery runs. I dropped off diapers, wipes and formula like I was a delivery service.
Three weeks passed.
The next day, my mom called.
I hadn’t held my nephew once.
Then I accidentally saw a photo online: our cousin on my sister’s couch, smiling, cradling Mason.
No mask. No hovering. No “RSV season.”
Just baby cuddles.
My stomach dropped so hard I had to sit down.
The next day, my mom called.
“So… everyone’s holding him. Except me.”
“He’s such a good snuggler,” she said, happy. “He fell asleep on me right away.”
I gripped my phone. “You held him?”
“Well, yeah. Your sister needed a shower.”
I went still. “So… everyone’s holding him. Except me.”
My mom did that careful voice. “Honey, your sister is just anxious.”
Anxious with me. Not with anyone else.
Don’t start. I’m protecting him.
Even the neighbor posted 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 stared at my screen. I work from home. I’m not the one “around people.” But I didn’t argue. I just felt my chest fill with something thick and bitter.
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 you want me to be there for him?
She left me on read.
Last Thursday, I drove over without texting.
I tried the doorknob without thinking.
I had a bag of new baby caps and a decision: I wasn’t going to be treated like some risky stranger in my own family.
Sister’s car was in the driveway.
I knocked. No answer.
I knocked again. Still nothing.
I tried the doorknob without thinking.
Unlocked.
My body moved before my brain did.
The house smelled like baby lotion and laundry that never gets folded.
I heard the shower upstairs. And then I heard Mason.
That desperate newborn cry that isn’t “I’m annoyed.”
It’s “I need someone.”
My body moved before my brain did.
“Mason?” I called, already walking fast.
And then I saw the Band-Aid.
He was alone in the bassinet, face red-purple, fists clenched, screaming like he’d been left there too long. I scooped him up. The second he hit my chest, his cry broke into hiccups.
His tiny fingers grabbed my shirt like he was hanging on.
“Oh, buddy,” I whispered. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
My eyes burned.
And then I saw the Band-Aid. Small. On his thigh.
It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t a wound.
Not fresh-from-a-shot. Not medical-looking.
Like someone put it there to hide something.
The corner was peeling up. I don’t know why my fingers lifted it. Maybe instinct. Maybe because I was already sick of being lied to. I peeled the edge back.
And my stomach dropped so hard I thought I might throw up.
It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t a wound. It wasn’t anything I could file under “newborn stuff.”
She saw Mason in my arms.
It was… something that didn’t belong in the story I’d been telling myself.
My hands started shaking. For a second, all I could do was stare. My brain tried to name it and couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
Meanwhile, footsteps slammed down the stairs. My sister appeared in the doorway in a towel, hair dripping, eyes wide. She saw Mason in my arms. Saw the lifted Band-Aid.
Her face drained of color so fast it was like someone turned a dimmer switch.
“Please. Just… put him down.”
“Oh God,” my sister whispered. She lunged forward, then stopped herself like she was afraid of what I’d do. “Put him down. Please. Just… put him down.”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
I looked at her. Then at Mason. Then back at her.
“What is this?” I managed.
“You weren’t supposed to see it.”
Her eyes darted everywhere except my face.
“It’s nothing,” she said too fast.
I let out a small, ugly laugh.
“It’s not nothing.”
“You weren’t supposed to see it.”
“What is it?” I repeated, louder.
“It’s germs.”
Her hands were trembling then. “Give me my baby.”
I held Mason tighter without meaning to.
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“Why did you keep me away?” I demanded. “Why me? Why does everyone else get to hold him, and I don’t?”
She flinched like I’d hit a nerve. “It’s germs.”
“Stop,” I said. “Don’t insult me.”
Whatever that was, it wasn’t his fault.
Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry like usual. She looked scared. Not “caught in a lie” scared. Worse.
“Give him to me,” she said again, almost pleading.
Mason made a tiny sound, and my chest tightened. I lowered him into the bassinet carefully, hands lingering a second because I didn’t want to let go. He was warm and real and innocent.
Whatever that was, it wasn’t his fault.
My sister snatched the blanket and tucked it around Mason like she was hiding him from my eyes.
“I’m leaving.”
I backed up a step. My heart was pounding so hard my ears rang.
I waited for the confession. The excuse. The dramatic story.
Instead, my sister just stared at me like she was waiting for me to explode.
I didn’t. I felt… cold. Like something in me had shut off to keep me standing.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“Good,” she breathed, like she was relieved.
“I’ll call someone else. I don’t care how mad you get.”
That did it. That one word.
I grabbed my bag of baby caps off the counter.
At the door, I turned back. “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.”
Her eyes flashed. “Don’t tell me how to parent.”
“Then don’t make me,” I said, and walked out.
My brain kept replaying what I saw under that Band-Aid.
In my car, my hands shook so hard I could barely get the key into the ignition.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t.
My brain kept replaying what I saw under that Band-Aid, trying to make it fit into a normal explanation.
Nothing fit.
When I got home, my husband was in the kitchen, humming like it was a normal day.
“Hey,” he said, smiling. “How’s the baby?”
“Just tired,” I lied.
The way he said it, too casual, too easy, made my skin prickle.
“Fine,” I said.
He leaned in to kiss my cheek.
I turned my head so it hit air.
He paused. “You okay?”
“Just tired,” I lied.
That night, I didn’t confront anyone.
My husband studied me for a second, then shrugged like he didn’t want to deal with it.
“Long day at work,” he said, already backing away.
I watched him walk out of the room, and something clicked into place.
Not a full picture. More like a thread.
That night, I didn’t confront anyone.
I didn’t text my sister. I didn’t call my mom.
I watched him keep his phone face-down.
I went quiet. And I watched.
I watched my husband wash his hands longer than usual when he came home.
I watched him keep his phone face-down.
I watched him jump when it buzzed.
I watched him suddenly take “quick errands” again—things he hadn’t done in months. And I watched him look at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, like he was checking whether I knew something.
I started sleeping with one eye open, metaphorically.
I ordered a DNA test that night.
Two days later, my husband was in the shower, and I did something I never thought I’d do. I went into the bathroom and opened his drawer. I found his hairbrush.
My hands were steady, which scared me more than shaking would’ve.
I pulled hair from the bristles and wrapped it carefully in tissue, like I was handling evidence.
Because I was.
I ordered a DNA test that night.
Every day, I played normal.
Not because I wanted to blow up my life. Because I couldn’t live with questions.
The waiting was torture.
Every day, I played normal.
I made dinner.
I answered, “How was your day?”
I smiled at the right times.
Inside, I was counting.
Tell me the truth about what I saw.
I drove past my sister’s house twice without stopping, just to see if his car was there. It wasn’t.
That didn’t calm me down. It made me colder.
My sister texted me once.
Sister: Are you mad?
I stared at it for a full minute.
Me: Tell me the truth about what I saw.
The test results came in on a Tuesday.
No reply. Of course.
The test results came in on a Tuesday. I opened them in my car in a parking lot because I didn’t want my house to absorb that moment. I read the first line. Then the next.
Then the percentage that made my vision blur.
My chest tightened so hard I thought I might pass out.
And suddenly, the thing under the Band-Aid had a name.
A reason my sister had been terrified I’d see.
A clear, ugly reason.
A reason my sister had been terrified I’d see.
That night, I walked into my house, set my keys down, and looked at my husband.
He smiled like he hadn’t shattered anything. “Hey. What’s for dinner?”
I pulled out my phone and held it up.
His smile fell apart. “What is that?”
“I saw the mark under the Band-Aid.”
“I know why she wouldn’t let me hold Mason.”
My husband’s face went gray.
And finally—finally—the words I hadn’t been able to say in her living room came out.
“Because I saw it,” I said. “I saw the mark under the Band-Aid.”
And in that moment, I didn’t feel like a passive victim. I felt like a woman who had been lied to, used, and managed for weeks—until the truth slipped.
I made him phone my sister to explain.
I took a step closer. “You’re going to tell me everything. Right now. Or I’ll tell everyone myself.”
Turns out he and my sister had been having an affair for years. Of course, they never planned the baby.
Eventually, I made him call my sister.
All he could get out was, “I swear, it was never supposed to go this way! I would have told you!”
The pair of them did their best to play innocent and defuse the situation, but nothing could take away the anger I felt at seeing that birthmark under the Band-Aid.
I was going to miss Mason, but for now, I had to focus on myself.
It was the same one my husband had. And the moment I spotted it, I knew.
So, I cut contact with my sister and got the divorce papers ready.
I was going to miss Mason, but for now, I had to focus on myself.
I thought the new baby would bring my sister and me closer, but it turned out to do the exact