I followed behind with the diaper bag hanging off one shoulder and my overnight bag dragging against the carpet. Max trailed after us until we reached the nursery door.
Then he stopped.
Just stopped.
He stood there with one hand on the doorframe, staring into the crib after Daniel laid the baby down. His face changed in a way I had never seen before. He went pale. His mouth parted. His eyes got wide, but not in wonder.
In fear.
He took one step back.
Then another.
“Max?” I said. “Honey, what is it?”
He looked at me, and in a voice so low I almost missed it, he said, “That’s not my sister.”
Daniel gave a tired laugh. “Buddy, come on.”
But Max was already backing away.
“I want to go to my room.”
I remember exchanging that look with Daniel.
The parental one. Here we go.
Daniel rolled his eyes a little and mouthed, Jealous.
I nodded because it made sense.
It fit. It was easy.
That first night, Max wouldn’t come to dinner until I physically walked him downstairs.
He barely spoke.
When the baby cried, he flinched so hard he knocked his juice over. Daniel snapped at him for being careless, and Max burst into tears so fast it shocked us both.
Later, after I got the baby settled, I found him sitting in the upstairs hallway outside the nursery with his knees tucked to his chest.
“Sweetheart?” I said, kneeling down. “Talk to me.”
His cheeks were wet. “That baby isn’t my sister.”
