I thought my son was struggling with a new baby until he looked me dead in the eye and said, “Mommy, that baby isn’t ours.” What he said next changed everything.
I still hear Max’s voice in my head sometimes. Not the laughing, sticky-handed, superhero voice I knew so well. Not the one that used to shout, “Mom, watch this!” before doing something reckless off the couch.
I hear the whisper.
“Mommy, that’s not my sister.”
If he had screamed it, maybe I would have taken it more seriously. If he had thrown a tantrum, I would have chalked it up to jealousy. If he had acted angry, I would have understood that too.
He was five. He’d been an only child his whole life. Everyone told me the transition would be hard.
But Max wasn’t angry.
He was terrified.
That is the part I can’t forgive myself for missing.
