The hospital room was calm in that fragile, suspended way that only exists after a birth. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, machines hummed softly, and exhaustion weighed on my body as I rested against the pillows. But my attention was fixed on the edge of the bed, where my four-year-old daughter, Lina, sat cross-legged in her bright red suspenders, carefully holding her newborn sister. Her small hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the seriousness of the moment. She rocked gently, whispering soft sounds meant to soothe, and for the first time since the pregnancy began, I felt my worries ease. I had feared jealousy or confusion, yet what I saw looked like pure love.

For a few seconds, everything felt perfect—almost unreal. Lina leaned closer to the baby, her face inches away, and whispered, “Now I have someone.” I smiled through tired tears, assuming she meant a playmate or a future partner in mischief. “Someone to what, sweetheart?” I asked lightly. She didn’t look up. Her voice dropped lower, steadier. “To keep the secrets with.” The word landed heavier than it should have, sending a chill through me that didn’t match the warmth of the room.