The night my life changed forever did not come with warning signs or dramatic music. It came quietly, wrapped in irritation, impatience, and a sentence that still echoes in my mind.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
Those were the first words my sister Lila said when I opened my apartment door.
She stood there stiffly, as if she were already halfway gone. One hand gripped a small, worn suitcase. The other pressed firmly against the back of her four-year-old son, Evan, pushing him forward toward me.
He nearly lost his balance.
His legs were weak, supported by braces, and he reached instinctively for my coat to keep himself upright. His grip was tight, desperate, like he already knew something terrible was happening.
Lila did not cry.
There were no tears.
No shaking voice.
No hesitation.
Her face looked tight and annoyed, like someone who had just finished an argument she was tired of having and had decided she was done explaining herself.
Before I could even ask what was wrong, she placed Evan directly into my arms.
“I met someone,” she said flatly. “He doesn’t want kids.”
For a moment, my mind could not catch up with her words.
“I’m sorry… what?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes. “I deserve a better life. I’m still young. I can’t be trapped like this forever.”
I looked down at Evan.
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