The weekend passed quietly. Evan and I caught up on housework, watched shows uninterrupted, and enjoyed the unfamiliar calm.
When I picked Sophie up Sunday evening, she was cheerful and chatty—talking about baking cookies, playing games, and watching cartoons. Everything seemed perfectly normal.
Until later that night.
I was folding laundry when I heard Sophie humming in her room, softly talking to herself. Then, casually, as if it slipped out, she said:
“What should I bring my brother next time I visit Grandma?”
My hands stopped mid-fold.
I walked into her room. “Sweetheart, what did you say?”
She jumped slightly. “Nothing.”
“I heard you say something about a brother,” I said carefully.
Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I wasn’t supposed to say it.”
My pulse quickened. “Say what, honey?”
After a pause, she whispered, “My brother lives at Grandma’s. But it’s a secret.”
I knelt beside her bed, forcing my voice to stay calm while my thoughts raced. “You’re not in trouble. You can tell me anything.”
“Grandma said I have a brother,” she said quietly. “But I can’t talk about him because it would make you sad.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
That night, I barely slept. Lying beside Evan, I replayed her words over and over, imagining the worst. Had there been a child I never knew about? A secret life?
Over the next few days, Sophie didn’t mention it again—but I noticed her setting toys aside.
“Why are you keeping those there?” I asked.
“They’re for my brother,” she answered matter-of-factly.
I couldn’t live with the uncertainty. I drove to Helen’s house without calling first.
