The first few days after the birth felt quiet, but I told myself that was normal. New parents disappear into exhaustion and wonder, I reasoned. Still, something gnawed at me. My texts went unread. My calls went straight to voicemail. Each day that passed felt heavier than the last, like a clock ticking louder in my chest. By the fifth day, worry had turned into panic. I barely slept, replaying hospital moments in my mind, searching for a sign I might have missed. On the sixth morning, I decided I would go to their house and demand answers, sister to sister. I was halfway into my sweater when the knock came—sharp, urgent, echoing through the hallway. When I opened the door and saw the baby carrier on my porch, my world tilted. Nora lay inside, breathing softly, wrapped in the same pink blanket from the hospital. For a split second, I thought it had to be some mistake, some cruel misunderstanding. Then I saw the note.

The words blurred as I read them, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped the paper. We didn’t want a baby like this. She’s your problem now. The cruelty of it hollowed me out. I called Claire immediately, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear the phone ring. When she answered, her voice was cold, sharp, nothing like the sister I knew. She accused me of hiding something, of knowing something about Nora and betraying them.

Her words cut deeper than the note itself. I stood there in my doorway, staring down at the baby I had carried, the baby I had given up, now abandoned and blamed on me. I tried to explain, my voice cracking, telling her I didn’t understand, that I had told her everything, that nothing was wrong with Nora. But Claire didn’t want to hear it. She hung up on me like I was a stranger.