For three whole weeks, my younger sister refused to let me hold her new baby, even though everyone else was getting plenty of cuddle time. Then I showed up at her house without warning, heard little Mason crying all by himself, and scooped him into my arms. There was a bandage on his leg that was starting to come off, and the exact moment I pulled back the edge, my sister dashed into the room, pleading with me to quit.
I am unable to have children.
It is not a “perhaps in the future” situation. It is not a “don’t give up” thing.
I simply… cannot.
Following a long time of struggling with fertility, I quit allowing my mind to imagine a baby’s room. I quit stopping to look around the infant section at the store. I quit using the word “whenever.”
Because of that, the moment Lucy announced she was expecting, I gave her all my energy and support. I hosted the baby shower for her. I purchased the baby bed. The pushcart. Those little duck sleepwear outfits that caused me to cry right there in the shop like a fool.
She squeezed me so hard I felt like I was losing my air. “You are going to be the greatest aunt in the world.”
I wished for that to become a reality more than I wished for pretty much anything else.
Lucy and my relationship has always been… a bit messy.
She has forever possessed a knack for twisting the truth to fit her own narrative. Tiny fibs when we were children, worse ones during high school, and once she grew up, it basically became her whole character: delicate, overly emotional, constantly playing the hurt one, and forever craving the spotlight.
However, I assumed having a kid would finally make her grow up.
Then little Mason arrived.
And the whole situation completely changed overnight.
Inside the maternity ward, I waited by her mattress holding a bouquet and some warm meals.
“He is absolutely flawless,” she murmured, gazing down at him as if he were pure magic.
I gave a huge grin, my chest thumping fast. “Am I allowed to hold him?”
Her hold on him got much firmer. Her gaze darted down to my fingers as if they were covered in mud.
“Not right now. It is heavy cold and flu time.”
“I scrubbed my hands. I can use the gel again.”
So I held off.
“I am aware,” she answered quickly. “Simply… not today.”
Chase was standing right in back of me and gave my shoulder that gentle, relaxing squeeze he always does. “We are okay with waiting.”
So I held off.
During the following trip over?
“He is taking a nap.”
The trip after that?
“He literally just finished feeding.”
The one after that?
“Perhaps on your next visit.”
I did my best to be polite. I stayed a few feet back. I put on a face cover. I cleaned my hands as if I were about to perform a medical procedure. I cooked dinners for them. I handled their supermarket trips. I left fresh diapers, baby towels, and milk powder on the porch like I was a hired driver.
Twenty-one days went by.
I had not gotten to hold my little nephew a single time.
Then I randomly stumbled upon a picture on social media: our relative sitting on Lucy’s sofa, grinning wide, holding Mason close.
Zero face covers. Zero staying back. Zero talk about “cold and flu time.”
Just sweet baby snuggles.
My gut sank so deeply that I needed to grab a chair.
The following morning, my mother gave me a ring.
“He is such a wonderful cuddler,” she noted, sounding thrilled. “He dozed off right on my chest instantly.”
I squeezed my cell tightly. “You got to hold him?”
“I mean, of course. Lucy had to take a quick wash.”
My entire body froze. “So… every single person is holding him. Besides me.”
My mother used her gentle, cautious tone. “Sweetheart, Lucy is simply feeling nervous.”
Nervous around me. Not around a single other soul.
Even the lady next door shared a post about bringing over food and receiving “baby snuggles.”
I sent Lucy a message.
Brooke: For what reason am I the absolute only person you refuse to let hold Mason?
Lucy: Do not start a fight. I am keeping him safe.
Brooke: Safe from me?
Lucy: You are always around crowds. It is a different situation.
I glared at my phone display. I do my job from my living room. I am hardly the person hanging “around crowds.” Yet I chose not to fight back. I merely felt my heart pack tight with a heavy, resentful emotion.
Brooke: I am dropping by tomorrow. I am going to hold him.
Lucy: Do not act threatening toward me.
Brooke: It is not a warning. Why on earth shouldn’t I be permitted to hold him if you expect me to show up and support him?
She viewed the text and ignored it.
This past Thursday, I steered my car over there without sending a heads-up.
I carried a sack of fresh infant hats along with a firm choice: I refused to be handled like a dangerous outsider inside my personal family.
Lucy’s vehicle sat parked outside.
I tapped the door. Nobody came.
I tapped one more time. Still totally quiet.
I twisted the handle without even planning to.
It was open.
The whole place carried the scent of infant cream and clean clothes that just sit in baskets forever.
I caught the sound of running water from the second floor. And right after that, I heard little Mason.
That panicked baby scream that does not just mean “I am frustrated.”
It clearly means “I desperately need a person.”
“Mason?” I yelled out, my feet already moving quickly.
He was completely by himself in his little bed, his cheeks a dark angry color, tiny hands balled up tight, yelling as if he had been ignored for ages. I gently lifted him into my arms. The exact moment he rested against my shirt, his sobbing turned into little gasps.
His tiny hands gripped my top as if he were trying not to fall.
“Oh, little guy,” I murmured. “I am here. I am right here.”
My vision got totally blurry with tears.
And right then I noticed the little bandage. Very tiny. Stuck to his upper leg.
It was not hiding a cut. It was not covering a scrape.
It did not look like a spot from a fresh needle. It did not appear doctor-related at all.
It looked exactly like somebody slapped it on just to conceal a secret.
One side of it was curling away from the skin. I honestly have no clue why my hand reached out to pull it. Perhaps it was a gut feeling. Perhaps because I was completely exhausted from all the fake excuses. I rolled the sticky part backward.
And my gut plummeted so forcefully I genuinely believed I was going to be sick.
It was definitely not a cut. It was not a scratch. It was nothing I could just brush off as “normal baby marks.”
It was… a detail that completely broke the reality I had been believing all this time.
My palms began to tremble violently. For a brief moment, the only thing I could manage was to glare at it. My mind attempted to figure out what it meant and failed. Or simply refused to accept it.
Right then, loud walking sounds pounded down the steps. Lucy showed up at the room entrance wrapped in a bath cloth, her wet hair soaking, her pupils massive. She spotted Mason resting against me. Spotted the removed bandage.
All the blood rushed out of her cheeks so quickly it looked like somebody killed the lights.
“Oh my goodness,” Lucy breathed out. She darted toward us, then froze in her tracks as if she were terrified of my reaction. “Set him in the bed. I am begging you. Simply… set him back.”
My jaw dropped wide. Not a single sound escaped.
I glared at her face. Next at Mason’s leg. Then straight back to her eyes.
“What exactly is this mark?” I choked out.
Her gaze bounced around the entire room, avoiding my eyes completely.
“It is absolutely nothing,” she answered way too quickly.
I released a harsh, bitter chuckle.
“It is clearly not nothing.”
“What is it?” I demanded again, raising my volume.
Her fingers were completely shaking by then. “Hand over my child right now.”
I squeezed Mason a little firmer without even planning to.
“Why on earth did you ban me from him?” I yelled. “Why just me? Why is every single other person allowed to cuddle him, but I am blocked?”
She jerked back like I had slapped her. “It is about the sickness.”
“Quit it,” I fired back. “Do not treat me like I am stupid.”
Her pupils welled up, but she did not start sobbing like she normally would. She appeared terrified. Not just “busted in a fib” kind of terrified. Way darker.
“Hand him back to me,” she repeated, practically begging.
Mason let out a little noise, and my heart squeezed. I set him down inside his baby bed very gently, my fingers resting there for an extra moment because I really hated letting him go. He was so cozy, so alive, and completely pure.
Lucy grabbed his soft cover and wrapped it tightly over Mason as if she were trying to shield him from my vision.
I took a step away. My pulse was thumping so aggressively that my head was buzzing.
I stood by for the big truth. The fake reason. The over-the-top excuse.
Rather than speaking, Lucy merely glared at me as if she were anticipating my total meltdown.
I refused to give her one. I just felt… freezing. As if a switch inside my brain had flipped off just to help me stay on my feet.
“I am heading out,” I stated.
“Fantastic,” she exhaled, sounding like a huge weight had lifted.
I snatched up my sack of infant hats from the kitchen island.
Right by the exit, I pivoted back around. “If you ever abandon him crying by himself again, I am ringing our mother. Or I am ringing the authorities. I really do not care how furious that makes you.”
Her gaze sparked with anger. “Do not instruct me on how to raise my kid.”
“Then stop forcing me to,” I answered, and marched right out the front door.
Inside my vehicle, my fingers trembled so violently I could hardly slide the metal into the starter.
I shed zero tears. I physically was unable to.
My mind continuously looped the image of what I spotted beneath that tiny bandage, attempting to force it into some logical, innocent excuse.
Absolutely nothing made sense.
Once I walked into my house, Chase was hanging out by the fridge, humming a tune as if life was perfectly fine.
“Hi there,” he greeted, grinning. “How is the little guy doing?”
The exact tone he used, way too relaxed, way too smooth, caused goosebumps to cover my arms.
“He is doing okay,” I replied.
He moved close to plant a kiss on my face.
I twisted my neck away so his lips caught nothing but empty space.
He stopped moving. “Are you alright?”
“Just exhausted,” I fibbed.
Chase examined my expression for a brief moment, then lifted his shoulders as if he really had no energy to handle my mood.
“It was a rough shift at the office,” he mumbled, already stepping backward.
I observed him stroll out of the kitchen, and right then, a terrible puzzle piece snapped together in my head.
It was not the entire answer yet. Just a tiny, sickening clue.
I chose not to message Lucy. I refused to dial my mother.
I became completely silent. And I started paying very close attention.
I noticed Chase scrubbing his fingers way longer than normal whenever he walked through the door.
I observed him placing his cell resting on its screen all the time.
I saw him flinch hard whenever it vibrated.
I spotted him randomly going on “fast grocery runs” again—habits he had completely stopped doing for ages. And I caught him staring at me whenever he assumed I was distracted, as if he were trying to read my mind to see if I figured it out.
I began acting like a total detective, watching his every single move.
A couple of days down the line, Chase hopped into the shower, and I pulled a move I swore I would never try. I sneaked right into the washroom and yanked open his cabinet. I located his grooming brush.
My palms were perfectly calm, a fact that terrified me way worse than if they had been trembling.
I plucked a few strands from the plastic spikes and folded them neatly inside a piece of paper, treating it exactly like a crime scene clue.
Simply because that is exactly what it was.
I paid for a paternity kit online that exact evening.
Each morning, I acted perfectly fine.
It was not because I desired to destroy my own universe. It was because I refused to survive on total doubts.
The countdown was pure agony.
I cooked our meals.
I replied to his regular, “How did your shift go?”
I forced a grin at all the correct moments.
Deep down, my brain was ticking like a clock.
I steered my vehicle by Lucy’s place a couple of times without parking, purely to check if his truck sat outside. It never was.
That fact did not bring me any peace. It just turned my heart to ice.
Lucy sent me exactly one message.
Lucy: Are you furious at me?
I glared at the glowing screen for sixty solid seconds.
Brooke: Give me the honest facts regarding what I found.
Zero response. Predictably.
The lab answers arrived during a Tuesday afternoon. I clicked the file open from my driver’s seat in an empty lot because I refused to let my home get tainted by that awful memory. I scanned the top sentence. Next, the one below it.
Followed by the exact numbers that caused my eyes to completely lose focus.
My lungs locked up so aggressively I genuinely felt like I was going to black out.
And all at once, that weird mark beneath the tiny bandage gained a very real label.
A solid excuse why Lucy was so horrified that I might catch a glimpse of it.
A glaring, disgusting excuse.
That very evening, I stepped through my front doorway, dropped my car keys on the counter, and stared directly at Chase.
He gave me a grin as if he had not completely ruined my life. “Hi there. What are we eating tonight?”
I yanked my cell from my pocket and shoved the screen in his direction.
His happy expression totally vanished. “What exactly am I looking at?”
“I finally figured out why she refused to let me cuddle little Mason.”
Chase’s skin drained to an awful, pale color.
And at long last—at last—the exact sentence I failed to spit out back in her home finally broke free.
“Because I caught it,” I stated clearly. “I spotted the spot right under that tiny bandage.”
And during that exact heartbeat, I did not feel like some weak, helpless fool. I felt like a tough person who had been tricked, played, and controlled for almost a month—right up until their dirty secret accidentally leaked out.
I moved one pace forward. “You are going to spill the whole story to me. This instant. Otherwise, I will gladly announce it to the whole family myself.”
It came to light that he and Lucy had been running around behind my back for a really long time. Obviously, they never actually intended to create a child.
After all the yelling, I forced him to dial Lucy’s number.
The only excuse he managed to stutter was, “I promise you, things were never meant to end up like this! I planned to confess the truth eventually!”
Both of those liars tried their hardest to act like sorry victims and calm me down, but absolutely nothing could erase the pure rage I experienced after recognizing that unique birthmark hidden beneath the little bandage.
It was the exact identical shape that Chase carried on his own skin. And the millisecond my eyes caught it, the puzzle was solved.
Because of that, I completely blocked Lucy out of my life and had my lawyer draft up the separation documents.
I honestly believed that the fresh infant was going to bond Lucy and me tighter than ever, yet it ended up doing the complete reverse.