My 5-Year-Old Son Looked at Our Newborn and Said, ‘That’s Not My Sister’ – I Thought He Was Jealous Until He Told Me What He Saw

“No.”

He lowered his eyes.

“She is mine. She isn’t yours.”

I gripped the doorframe.

“Whose child is in my nursery?”

“Her name was Celia before we brought her home.”

“Who is her mother?”

Keaton rubbed both hands across his face.

“Blythe.”

I knew the name.

Blythe worked in his office. I had met her twice at company dinners. She was soft-spoken and always seemed embarrassed when I tried to include her in conversation.

“You had an affair.”

“Yes.”

“And she had your baby.”

“Yes.”

I could hardly hear my own voice.

“Where is Liora?”

Keaton looked away.

That was when my body understood before my mind did.

“No.”

“Maris—”

“No.”

“Our daughter did not survive the delivery.”

The room tilted.

“I held her.”

“You held her for less than a minute. She was already gone.”

I remembered the flowered cap.

The cold cheek beneath my fingers.

Keaton saying, She needs to be checked.

“You knew.”

He nodded.

“And you put another baby in my arms.”

“I was trying to keep our family together.”

I moved toward him before I realized it. My hands struck his chest, and he stumbled backward.

“You let me feed her. You watched me call her Liora.”

“You were falling apart.”

“So you bought a child?”

His eyes flashed.

“Blythe didn’t want to raise her alone.”

“That does not make her yours to purchase.”

Keaton began explaining everything in ugly pieces.

His investments had failed. We were deeper in debt than I knew. His parents had been quietly paying some of our bills, but their trust required him to maintain the appearance of a stable family.

They wanted another grandchild.

Blythe wanted money and a clean break.

When Liora died, Keaton saw a solution.