Elio had been our only child for five years. Every parenting article I had read warned that older children could behave strangely after a new baby arrived.
So I accepted the easiest answer.
That evening, Elio refused to sit beside me while I fed the baby. When she cried, he covered his ears and left the room.
At dinner, he knocked over his milk after the baby made a sudden sound from upstairs.
Keaton snapped, “Pay attention.”
Elio burst into tears so quickly that all three of us froze.
I took him upstairs and found him sitting outside the nursery twenty minutes later, hugging his knees.
I lowered myself beside him.
“You can tell me if you’re upset that the baby is taking my time.”
He looked offended.
“I wanted Liora.”
“She is Liora.”
“No, Mommy.”
This time, there was no anger in his face.
Only fear.
“That baby isn’t my sister.”
A cold feeling moved through me.
“Why do you keep saying that?”
His eyes went to the stairs.
“I don’t want Dad to hear.”
I told him Keaton was downstairs.
Elio grabbed my hand with both of his. His fingers felt cold.
“At the hospital, Dad said we were going to get juice.”
I waited.
“But we didn’t go to the machine,” he continued. “He took me down a quiet hallway and told me to stay against the wall.”
“What happened?”
“A lady came through a door.”
“What lady?”
Elio struggled to explain.
“She had hair like yours, but lighter. She was crying, and she was holding a baby.”
My mouth went dry.
“What did Dad do?”
“He gave her a big yellow envelope.”
I thought of the thick document envelopes Keaton kept in his office.
“And then?”
“He took the baby.”
The nursery seemed to grow smaller around us.
