David gently lifted the blanket, revealing a baby’s tiny hand. My heart stopped—the birthmark near his thumb was unmistakable. My sister Lily had the same one.
Six months ago, Lily and I had a falling out. Harsh words. No contact. Now, I was staring at her child.
“This can’t be,” I whispered. “He’s Lily’s.”
David looked stunned. “But she never said anything.”
Neither of us knew why she left her baby. But we knew one thing: he needed someone now. We named him Ethan.
Thirteen years passed. Ethan became our world—bright, kind, ours in every way that mattered. But one day, the doorbell rang. It was Lily.
“I want him back,” she said. “I can give him more now.”
But Ethan overheard.
“You weren’t there,” he said. “You missed everything. They’re my family.”
Lily broke down, finally understanding what she’d lost. She left, quietly, respectfully.
Later, I hugged Ethan close. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I just don’t get how she left me.”
David wrapped his arms around us. “People make mistakes. But we’ve got each other. Always.”
That night, I prayed in gratitude. And then I cried with joy… because I’d just found out—I was pregnant.
