When Sophie spent the weekend at my mother-in-law Helen’s house, I expected the usual: extra cookies, late bedtimes, and a new toy obsession. Helen lived forty minutes away in a quiet, picture-perfect neighborhood. She was the kind of grandmother who saved every crayon drawing, kept spare pajamas for surprise sleepovers, and tried to feed every child until they burst. Sophie adored her—and Helen adored Sophie back.
So when Helen asked to have Sophie for the weekend, I didn’t hesitate. I packed pajamas, stuffed rabbits, and enough snacks to survive a small apocalypse. Sophie bounded out the door like she’d been invited to Disney World.
The weekend was quiet—almost restorative. Evan and I finally tackled chores, watched shows we’d abandoned months ago, and ate a dinner without negotiations or reminders for “three more bites.” It felt peaceful.
But that peace shattered on Sunday night. Sophie came barreling out of Helen’s door, sticky fingers and wild hair, chattering nonstop about cookies, cartoons, and board games. Helen stood there, smiling, hands folded, having done her grandmotherly duty.
Later, Sophie quietly disappeared into her room. I heard the familiar sounds of play, then a small voice:
“What should I give my brother when I go back to Grandma’s?”
I froze. One child. Sophie does not have a brother.
When I asked her, she whispered, “Grandma said I have a brother. She said I shouldn’t talk about it because it would make you sad.”
Continue reading on the next page…