After a peaceful weekend at my mother-in-law’s house, my daughter said something so unsettling it felt like all the air left my lungs.
“My brother lives at Grandma’s,” she whispered. “But I’m not allowed to tell.”
We have only one child.
Evan and I have been married for eight years. Our life isn’t extraordinary, but it’s stable and loving. Our five-year-old daughter, Sophie, fills our home with songs, questions, and boundless imagination. There has never been another child—no son, no sibling.
Evan’s mother, Helen, lives about forty minutes away in a quiet neighborhood. She’s the kind of grandmother who saves every crayon drawing, keeps emergency cookies hidden away, and has toys tucked into closets “just in case.” Sophie absolutely adores her, and Helen dotes on Sophie just as much.
So when Helen asked to have Sophie stay the weekend, I didn’t think twice. I packed pajamas, stuffed animals, and more snacks than necessary.
“Be good for Grandma,” I called.
“I always am,” Sophie said, already racing inside.
