“I’m so happy for you,” I told her. “You’re going to be such a good mom.”
“I already love her, Meg,” she whispered.
The first time I met Sophie, she was sitting in the middle of their living room, carefully stacking blocks into a tower taller than she was. She had round cheeks, soft curls, and wide brown eyes that studied everything around her. When I knelt beside her, she looked up at me, blinked once, and asked shyly, “Are you Auntie?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” I said with a smile. “I’m your Auntie Megan.”
She nodded solemnly and handed me a blue block.
From that moment on, she never called me anything else. Every time she saw me, her arms flew open. She would yell, “Auntie!” and run straight into my arms.
She followed Claire everywhere—drawing her pictures, helping in the kitchen with tiny plastic spoons, and curling up next to her on the couch as if she’d always belonged there. And the truth was, she did.
Claire would watch her with pride and say, “She’s perfect, isn’t she?”
I believed her. For the first time, Claire seemed complete. It felt like our family had finally healed.
For illustrative purposes only
But life has a way of throwing unexpected curveballs—the kind that leave bruises you never see coming.
