My sister wouldn’t let me hold her newborn for three whole weeks. Everyone else got cuddles—everyone. But me? I had to watch from the sidelines.
Then, one afternoon, I walked in unannounced. I heard Mason screaming, alone in his bassinet, tiny fists flailing, the kind of cry that makes your heart race.
I picked him up immediately. That’s when I noticed the Band-Aid on his thigh, peeling at the corner. And as soon as I lifted it slightly, my sister came running, towel around her, eyes wide, practically begging me to stop.
I can’t have kids.
Not “maybe someday.” Not “keep trying.”
Just… can’t.
“You’re going to be the best aunt ever,” she had said, hugging me tight, and I wanted that to be true more than almost anything in the world.
After years of infertility, I stopped letting myself imagine nurseries. I stopped lingering in the baby aisle. I stopped saying “when someday.”
So when my little sister got pregnant, I threw myself into everything. I hosted the gender reveal. Bought the crib, the stroller, the tiny duck pajamas that made me tear up in the store like a complete idiot. She hugged me that day and whispered, “You’re going to be the best aunt ever.”
I believed her. I wanted to be.
I thought having a baby would straighten her out.
But my sister and I have always been… complicated.
She has a knack for bending reality. Little lies as a kid, bigger ones as a teen, and by the time we were adults, it had just become her personality—fragile, dramatic, always the victim, always needing attention.
I thought a baby would change that.
Then Mason was born.
Everything flipped like a light switch.
“Can I hold him?” I asked at the hospital, standing near her bed with flowers and food in my hands.
“He’s perfect,” she said, staring down at him like he was a miracle.
I swallowed hard. “Can I hold him?”
Her grip tightened on the baby. Her eyes flicked to my hands like they were dirty.
“Not yet. It’s RSV season.”
“I washed. I can sanitize again.”
Her eyes darted around, and she rushed, “I know, just… not yet.”
My husband stood behind me, hand on my shoulder. “We can wait,” he whispered.
So I waited.
Next visit? “He’s sleeping.”
Next visit? “He just ate.”
Next? I wore a mask.
Next? “Maybe next time.”
I tried to be respectful. I stayed away. I sanitized like I was preparing for surgery. I brought meals. Ran errands. Delivered diapers, wipes, formula—like I was some kind of baby courier.
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, smiling on my sister’s couch, cradling Mason. No mask. No hovering. No “RSV season.” Just cuddles.
My stomach dropped so fast I almost collapsed.
The next day, my mom called.
“So… everyone’s holding him except me,” I said, my voice shaking.
“He’s such a good snuggler,” she said happily. “He fell asleep on me right away.”
I gripped the phone. “You held him?”
“Well, yeah. Your sister needed a shower,” my mom said casually.
I froze. “So… everyone’s holding him. Except me?”
My mom’s voice softened. “Honey, your sister is just anxious.”
Anxious—with me. Not anyone else.
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. My chest filled with bitter tension.
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 hold him if I’m there for him?
She left me on read.
I arrived anyway. Tried the doorknob—unlocked.
My body moved before my brain. The house smelled like baby lotion and unfolded laundry. Upstairs, I heard the shower. And then Mason—his desperate newborn cry.
I ran.
“Mason?” I called. He was alone in the bassinet, red-purple in the face, fists clenching, screaming like he’d been abandoned. I scooped him up. His cry turned into hiccups. His tiny fingers grabbed my shirt.
“Oh, buddy. I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” I whispered.
Then I saw the Band-Aid. Small, on his thigh. Not blood. Not fresh from a shot. Something off. I lifted the corner, instinctively.
My stomach dropped.
Footsteps slammed downstairs. My sister appeared, towel around her, hair dripping, eyes wide. She saw Mason in my arms. Saw the Band-Aid lifted.
“Please. Just… put him down,” she whispered, fear flashing across her face.
“What is this?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“You weren’t supposed to see it,” she stammered.
“It’s nothing,” she added too quickly.
I laughed bitterly. “It’s not nothing. What is it?”
“It’s germs,” she said, shaking.
“Stop. Don’t insult me.”
I held Mason close a little longer, then gently placed him back in the bassinet. She snatched the blanket, hiding him from my eyes.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
I backed up. My heart pounded. “If you ever leave him screaming alone again, I’ll call Mom. Or someone else. I don’t care how mad you get.”
“Don’t tell me how to parent,” she spat.
“Then don’t make me,” I said, and left.
In my car, my hands shook. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. My mind replayed that Band-Aid, trying to force it into a normal explanation. Nothing fit.
At home, my husband was humming in the kitchen.
“Hey, how’s the baby?” he asked casually.
“Just tired,” I lied.
He leaned to kiss my cheek. I turned away.
“You okay?”
“Just tired,” I said.
That night, I didn’t confront anyone. I watched him. His phone stayed face down. He washed his hands longer than usual. Took sudden errands. Always checking if I was watching.
I ordered a DNA test.
Two days later, I went into the bathroom, opened his drawer, and found his hairbrush. My hands were steady as I pulled out the hair, wrapped it in tissue like evidence.
Every day, I acted normal. Made dinner. Smiled. Counted. Waited for the truth.
Finally, the test results came. I opened them in my car. The percentage blurred my vision. My chest tightened like I might pass out. The thing under the Band-Aid had a name. A reason my sister had been terrified I’d see.
That night, I walked into my house, held my phone up. My husband’s smile fell.
“I saw the mark under the Band-Aid,” I said.
He went gray.
Turns out he and my sister had been having an affair for years. Of course, they never planned the baby.
I made him call my sister.
“I swear, it was never supposed to go this way! I would have told you!” he stammered.
No excuses could erase the anger I felt at that birthmark. I had to focus on myself.
I cut contact with my sister. Got divorce papers ready. I was going to miss Mason, but I couldn’t stay in a world built on lies.
I thought the baby would bring us closer. It didn’t. It tore everything apart.