After years of infertility, I stopped imagining nurseries. I stopped lingering in baby aisles. I stopped saying “when.”o 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 thighIt wasn’t in a spot typical for a recent shot. It looked placed there… intentionally.he corner was peeling. I lifted it gently.