I hear the whisper.
“Mommy, that’s not my sister.”
If he had yelled it, maybe I’d have taken it more seriously. If he had had a meltdown, I would have written it off as jealousy. If he had seemed angry, I would have understood that too.
He was five. He’d been our only child his entire life. Everyone warned me the adjustment would be tough.
But Max wasn’t angry.
He was scared out of his mind.
That’s the part I can’t forgive myself for missing.
For months, he had pleaded for a baby sister.
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