I can’t have children. Not “maybe one day.” Not “just keep trying.” Just… no.

After years of infertility, I stopped imagining nurseries. I stopped lingering in baby aisles. I stopped saying “when.”

So when my younger sister got pregnant, I poured myself into it. I hosted the gender reveal. I bought the crib, the stroller, the tiny duck pajamas that made me cry in the store. She hugged me and said, “You’re going to be the best aunt ever.” I wanted that to be true more than anything.

My sister and I have always had a complicated relationship. She’s dramatic, often bends the truth, and thrives on attention. Still, I hoped motherhood would ground her.

Then Mason was born.

At the hospital, I stood beside her bed, heart racing. “Can I hold him?”

Her arms tightened around the baby. “Not yet. It’s RSV season.”

I offered to sanitize again. I waited.

The next visit? “He’s sleeping.”
After that? “He just ate.”
Then? “Maybe next time.”

I wore a mask. I brought groceries. Dropped off diapers. Cooked meals. Three weeks passed.

Meanwhile, I saw photos online—cousins, neighbors, even my mom holding Mason. No mask. No hesitation.

I texted her.

Me: Why am I the only one who can’t hold him?
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.

At home, I began watching.

My husband washing his hands too long.
His phone always face-down.
“Quick errands” he hadn’t run in months.
The way he looked at me like he was measuring what I knew.

I ordered a DNA test.

Two days later, I opened the results in my car.

The percentage confirmed what my gut already understood.

The mark under that Band-Aid had a name.

Paternity.

That night, I held up the results to my husband.

His face went pale.

“I saw the birthmark,” I said. “I know why she wouldn’t let me hold him.”

Eventually, the truth came out. The affair had been going on for years. The pregnancy wasn’t planned—but it wasn’t impossible either.

I made him call her and explain. The excuses tumbled out, but none of them changed the reality.

I cut contact with my sister. Filed for divorce.

I will miss Mason. That part still hurts.

I thought becoming an aunt would bring my sister and me closer. Instead, it revealed the truth that had been hiding in plain sight.

And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.