There are two things I’ve always been certain of: my unwavering love for my son, Eli, and the deep trust I had in my sister, Lily. She was my rock, especially in those early days of motherhood when everything felt overwhelming. Lily would show up without being asked, taking care of Eli like he was her own, helping me rest without ever making me feel inadequate.
As Eli grew, weekends with Aunt Lily became a cherished routine. Every Saturday, she whisked him away for small adventures: pancakes at the diner, trips to the farmers’ market, or afternoons at the park. He came home beaming, pockets full of little treasures and stories. I appreciated the bond they shared—even if, sometimes, it felt like she had a piece of him I didn’t.
Then, one Saturday, everything changed.
Eli burst into the kitchen, knees scraped and cheeks flushed with joy. “Mom! Guess what me and my other dad did!” he announced. The words knocked the wind out of me.
“Your what?” I asked, trying to stay calm.
“My other dad,” he said cheerfully. “He’s really cool. He can whistle super loud!”
I tried to laugh it off, assuming he was pretending—but something about the way he said it made my heart sink. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The name that came back to me over and over was Trent—Eli’s biological father. He and I had lost touch before I even knew I was pregnant. I had never told him about Eli.
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