I never told Stefan about his twin. I told myself I was protecting him. How do you place that kind of weight on a small child’s heart?
Instead, I poured everything I had into raising him. I loved him more fiercely than I knew was possible.
We built traditions—especially our Sunday walks through the park near our apartment. Stefan liked to count ducks by the pond. I liked watching him, his brown curls bouncing in the sunlight.
That Sunday felt ordinary.
Stefan had just turned five. He was at the age of monsters under beds and astronauts visiting in dreams. His imagination was endless.
We were passing the swings when he stopped so abruptly I nearly bumped into him.
“Mom,” he said quietly.
“What is it, honey?”
He stared across the playground. His voice was certain. “He was in your belly with me.”
My stomach tightened. “What did you say?”
