I can’t have kids.
So when my little sister got pregnant, I poured everything into being the best aunt I could be. I bought the crib, the stroller, the tiny pajamas that made me cry in store aisles.
Then Mason was born.
And suddenly, I wasn’t allowed to hold him.
RSV season, she said. He just ate. He’s sleeping. Maybe next time.
Three weeks passed.
Meanwhile, everyone else got baby cuddles. My mom. Our cousin. Even the neighbor.
But not me.
One day I went over unannounced. I heard Mason screaming upstairs while my sister was in the shower. I picked him up, and he melted into me instantly.
That’s when I saw it.
A Band-Aid on his thigh. Peeling.
I lifted the corner.
My sister ran in, panic all over her face.
“Put him down. Please. You weren’t supposed to see that.”
I didn’t understand yet — but I knew it was bigger than germs.
So I went home and started watching.
The secretive phone. The face-down texts. The sudden errands.
I ordered a DNA test.
When the results came back, the world tilted.
The mark under the Band-Aid had a name.
My husband’s.
They’d been having an affair for years.
That’s why she kept me away.
I filed for divorce.
Because betrayal is one thing.
But being managed like a fool?
Unforgivable.