The hospital room was quiet, heavy with disinfectant, exhaustion, and relief. My body ached from birth, but none of that mattered when I saw Lina climb onto the bed. Four years old, trembling slightly, cradling her newborn sister.
I had worried about jealousy, about whether she’d feel replaced. Instead, Lina rocked gently, whispering soft “shh” sounds. My chest tightened with pride. Then she leaned close and whispered:
“Now I have someone to keep the secrets with.”
I laughed nervously. “What secrets, baby?”
She looked at me with eyes too knowing for her age. “The ones I don’t tell Daddy.”
The room shrank around me. She bent closer to the baby, whispering again: “I showed her where it’s quiet, so she’ll know where to go when the voice gets loud.”
The nurse in the doorway froze. My heart sank. My child had not been joking. She had been navigating fear and building safety where I hadn’t even realized it was needed.
Leaving our old home was slow and terrifying. But over time, Lina grew steadier, shedding the habits shaped by fear. She found strength, friendship, and joy. Years later, watching both daughters laugh freely, I understood: she had been asking for help in the only language she had—and finally, we could build a life where secrets were no longer necessary for survival.