AUNT DEBORAH JUST SAID, “WE LOST THE BABY,” BUT I NEVER KNEW ABOUT IT.
I heard a low moan from Aunt Deborah’s room, pulling me from the quiet hum of the oxygen machine. I hurried in, finding her eyes wide, fixed on the water-stained ceiling, a thin tear tracing a path across her papery cheek. The stale, medicinal air felt heavy, almost suffocating, as if secrets were trapped in the faint sunlight. I knelt beside her bed.
“He was so small,” she rasped, her voice a dry whisper that barely carried over the steady hum of the oxygen machine. “Just like you, with that tiny birthmark on his wrist.” My breath hitched in my throat; the only baby I’d ever heard about in our family was *me*. I gripped her frail, surprisingly cool hand. “Who are you talking about, Aunt Deb?”
Her gaze, suddenly lucid, locked onto mine, a flicker of raw pain deep within her cloudy blue eyes. “Our little boy. The one they said was… gone. They didn’t even let me hold him, just wrapped him up. He was so perfect.” A cold wave of nausea washed over me. *A little boy?* My family never mentioned this. Not once.
I tried to ask more, to process the sheer impossible weight of her words, but her head snapped towards the open bedroom door. Her eyes widened in terror. “He was so small… and they took him from me.” A sharp, insistent knock echoed through the quiet house, making me jump.
Then my mother walked in and her face went pure white.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…The knock came again, more insistent this time. My mother’s entrance felt like a tidal wave, the quiet of the room instantly displaced by a palpable tension. She stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still raised as if about to knock. Her carefully composed mask of placidity cracked, revealing a fear I’d never seen before.
“Deborah,” she began, her voice tight, strained. “Are you alright?”
Aunt Deborah, her face now pale and drawn, just stared at the door, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The oxygen machine whirred, a monotonous counterpoint to the unspoken dread filling the room.
“Who’s at the door, Mom?” I asked, my voice a trembling whisper.
My mother didn’t answer. Her gaze darted between me and Aunt Deborah, a silent conversation passing between them. Finally, she forced a shaky smile, a clear attempt to regain control. “Just… just a delivery. Stay here, dear. I’ll get it.”
As she turned to leave, I saw her hand clench into a fist. Something was terribly wrong. I couldn’t simply stay put.
“Wait, Mom,” I said, rising to my feet, my legs unsteady. “I’m coming with you.”
Reluctantly, she nodded, her face still etched with worry. We walked together through the silent house, each footstep echoing on the polished wooden floor. As we approached the front door, I could hear muffled voices from the other side.
My mother hesitated, her hand hovering over the doorknob. “Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “don’t say anything. Just let me handle this.”
With a deep breath, she opened the door. A woman stood on the porch, holding a large, elaborately wrapped basket. She wore a crisp, white uniform, and her face was devoid of any emotion.
“Mrs. Eleanor,” the woman said, her voice flat and professional. “Delivery for the patient.”
My mother took the basket, her hands trembling. “Thank you,” she replied, her eyes fixed on the woman. “Please, come in.”
The woman shook her head, “I have other deliveries to make. Good day.” She turned and walked away without a backward glance.
As my mother closed the door, the silence of the house descended once more. But this time, the silence was thick with unspoken words. She carried the basket to the living room and slowly placed it on the coffee table.
Hesitantly, I reached out to touch the woven wicker. It felt warm, almost pulsing. “What is it, Mom?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
My mother’s shoulders slumped. She looked at me, her eyes filled with unshed tears. She reached for the basket, her fingers fumbling with the satin ribbon.
“It’s… it’s a memorial,” she finally said, her voice cracking. “For your brother.”
I stared at her, unable to process the words. Brother? I had a brother?
Slowly, deliberately, my mother unwrapped the basket. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft, white fabric, lay a collection of items: a tiny, embroidered blanket, a small wooden rattle, a faded photograph of a baby with a birthmark on his wrist. And, placed on top of everything, was a small, beautifully crafted wooden box.
“He was born before you,” my mother said, her voice a broken whisper. “He was small… and he didn’t survive. We tried to protect you, sweetheart. To keep you safe from the pain.” She gestured towards the box, a single tear finally escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. “Inside is a lock of his hair and a tiny, silver ring. He was so loved, even if he never lived a full life.”
We stood there together in the quiet, sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating the painful truth that had been hidden for so long. I reached out and took her hand, a silent promise to share the weight of the secret, to honor the memory of the brother I never knew, the little boy with the birthmark on his wrist. The air in the room, still thick with the scent of medicine and secrets, suddenly felt a little lighter, the weight of the unspoken words finally beginning to lift, allowing for healing to finally begin.