My sister wouldn’t let me hold her newborn for three weeks, while everyone else got baby cuddles. Then I walked in unannounced, heard Mason screaming alone, and picked him up. The Band-Aid on his thigh was peeling, and the second I lifted the corner, my sister came running, begging me to stop.
I can’t have kids.
Not “maybe someday.” Not “keep trying.” Just… can’t.
After years of infertility, I stopped letting myself picture a nursery.
I stopped pausing in the baby aisle. I stopped saying “when.”
So when my little sister got pregnant, I poured everything I had into her.
I threw the gender reveal. I bought the crib.
The stroller. The tiny duck pajamas that made me tear up in a store aisle like an idiot.
She hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.
“You’re going to be the best aunt ever,” she whispered.
I wanted that to be true more than I wanted almost anything.
My sister and I have always been… complicated.
She’s always had a talent for bending reality until it suited her. Little lies as a kid, bigger ones as a teen, and by adulthood it was just her personality: fragile, dramatic, always the victim, always needing attention.
But I thought a baby would straighten her out.
Then Mason was born.
And everything flipped like a switch.
At the hospital, I stood next to her bed with flowers and food.
“He’s perfect,” she said, staring at him like he was a miracle.
I smiled, heart pounding.
Her grip tightened.
Her eyes flicked to my hands like they were dirty.
“Not yet,” she said. “It’s RSV season.”
“I washed,” I said. “I can sanitize again.”
“I know,” she rushed.
“Just… not yet.”
My husband stood behind me and did that calming-hand-on-my-shoulder thing.
“We can wait,” he said.
So I waited.
Next visit?
Next?
“He just ate.”
“Maybe next time.”
I tried to be respectful. I kept my distance. I wore a mask.
I sanitized like I was going into surgery. I brought meals. I did grocery runs.
I dropped off diapers and wipes and formula like I was a delivery service.
Three weeks passed.
I hadn’t held my nephew once.
Then I accidentally saw a photo online—our cousin on my sister’s couch, smiling, cradling Mason.
No mask. No hovering. No “RSV season.”
Just baby cuddles.
My stomach dropped so hard I had to sit down.
The next day my mom called.
“He’s such a good snuggler,” she said, happy.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
