There were two things I thought I could count on in this life: my unshakable bond with my son, and my sister Lily’s open-hearted loyalty.

Lily’s always been the soft place everyone lands. Gentle voice. Fierce love. The kind of person who’d give you her last sweater and claim she never liked it anyway.

When Eli was born, I was cracked wide open—tired, aching, weepy in the kind of way that had no off-switch. It was Lily who showed up in the middle of the night with soup, tucked my robe tighter around my shoulders, and took my crying baby into her arms like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it.

No lectures. No pity. Just love. Steady, simple love.

And it didn’t stop there. Through teething, colic, fevers, and first steps, Lily was there. She came to know the sound of his cries as intimately as I did.

By the time Eli turned five, a rhythm had settled in. Saturday mornings meant Aunt Lily’s truck pulling into the driveway with snacks in the passenger seat and a promise of adventure in the back.

Those weekends were sacred. Eli came back with grass-stained knees and stories that didn’t always make sense but glowed with joy. And I? I got to sleep in. Clean the kitchen. Breathe.

I told myself it was good. That it was healthy for him to have more love. But there were days I couldn’t ignore the tug in my chest. A quiet question. Was he starting to feel more hers than mine?

Then came the Saturday that tipped everything sideways.

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