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.
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