I can’t have children. Not “maybe one day.” Not “just keep trying.” Just… no.

After years of infertility, I stopped imagining nurseries. I stopped lingering in baby aisles. I stopped saying “when.”

So when my younger sister got pregnant, I poured myself into it. I hosted the gender reveal. I bought the crib, the stroller, the tiny duck pajamas that made me cry in the store. She hugged me and said, “You’re going to be the best aunt ever.” I wanted that to be true more than anything.

My sister and I have always had a complicated relationship. She’s dramatic, often bends the truth, and thrives on attention. Still, I hoped motherhood would ground her.

Then Mason was born.

At the hospital, I stood beside her bed, heart racing. “Can I hold him?”

Her arms tightened around the baby. “Not yet. It’s RSV season.”

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?