I had a husband. A home in a quiet Oregon suburb. Routines that worked. I had just given birth to my second daughter after a long, grueling night of labor, and despite the pain and the haze, I felt steady, grounded by the belief that this was what stability looked like. The disorder was temporary. The love was permanent. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The nurse opened the door softly and ushered my older daughter inside. Harper—five years old—entered with a careful seriousness, as though she instinctively understood this was no ordinary visit. She wore a faded yellow dress she insisted was her “brave one,” her dark curls loosely pulled back, already slipping free around her face. Her eyes were thoughtful in a way that often caught adults off guard, as if she noticed more than she ever said.
“Are you ready to meet your sister?” the nurse asked gently.
Harper nodded, unsmiling.
I had spent months worrying about this moment. I’d read everything about sibling jealousy—emotional backsliding, tantrums, resentment once a new baby came home. I had rehearsed comforting speeches in my head, practiced explaining to Harper that love wasn’t something that ran out.
None of that came to pass.
The nurse carefully settled my newborn daughter, Mila, into Harper’s arms, guiding her elbows, reminding her to support the baby’s head. Harper’s posture changed instantly. She stiffened—not with fear, but with intention. Her arms closed around Mila with a tenderness so deliberate it made my chest tighten.
She didn’t giggle. She didn’t squeal. She didn’t look to me for reassurance.
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