I used to think the hardest part of being an aunt to newborn twins would be the exhaustion by association — the late-night calls, the emergency diaper runs, the constant background crying that followed my sister everywhere.

I was wrong.

The real shock came the night I opened the nanny cam app and saw something that made my blood run cold.

I can’t have children. Not “maybe someday.” Not “keep trying.” Just… can’t.

After years of failed treatments and quiet grief, I stopped imagining nurseries. I stopped lingering in baby aisles. I stopped saying “when.” So when my little sister got pregnant, I poured everything I had into her instead. I threw the gender reveal. Bought the crib, the stroller, the tiny duck pajamas that made me cry in the middle of Target.

“You’re going to be the best aunt ever,” she told me once, hugging me tight.

I believed her.

Our relationship had always been complicated. She had a way of bending reality until it suited her — small lies as a kid, bigger ones as an adult. But I thought motherhood might steady her.

Then Mason was born.

And for three weeks, I wasn’t allowed to hold him.

At the hospital, I stood beside her bed with flowers and home-cooked food.

“Can I hold him?” I asked, smiling.

Her grip tightened. “Not yet. It’s RSV season.”

I sanitized. I wore a mask. I waited.

Next visit? “He’s sleeping.”

Next? “He just ate.”

Three weeks passed.

Meanwhile, I saw photos online. Cousins cradling him. My mom rocking him. Even the neighbor posted about “baby cuddles.”

Just not me.

When I confronted her, she brushed me off. “I’m protecting him,” she texted.

“From me?” I wrote back.

No answer.

The following Thursday, I drove over without announcing myself. Her car was in the driveway. I knocked. No response. The door was unlocked.

Inside, the house smelled like baby lotion and damp laundry. I heard the shower upstairs.

Then I heard Mason.