I offered to sanitize again. I waited.

The next visit? “He’s sleeping.”
After that? “He just ate.”
Then? “Maybe next time.”

I wore a mask. I brought groceries. Dropped off diapers. Cooked meals. Three weeks passed.

Meanwhile, I saw photos online—cousins, neighbors, even my mom holding Mason. No mask. No hesitation.

I texted her.

Me: Why am I the only one who can’t hold him?
Her: I’m protecting him.
Me: From me?

She left me on read.

One afternoon, I drove over without texting. Her car was in the driveway. The house was known to me—we’d always come and go freely.

The door was unlocked.

Inside, I heard the shower running upstairs. And then I heard Mason crying—not the fussy kind, but the desperate, newborn kind.

He was alone in his bassinet, red-faced and wailing. I picked him up. He quieted instantly against my chest, tiny fingers clutching my shirt.

That’s when I noticed the Band-Aid on his thigh.

It wasn’t in a spot typical for a recent shot. It looked placed there… intentionally.

The corner was peeling. I lifted it gently.

And everything in me went cold.

It wasn’t an injury. It wasn’t something temporary.

It was a birthmark.

A very specific one.

The same one my husband has.

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