The crying starts exactly at 8 PM. Like a timer, it begins the moment my sister’s cheap muffler rattles down the street. She’s off with her new boyfriend, again. She’s been doing this for a month, ever since the baby arrived. It used to be just me, my sick mom, and our crumbling house. Now, it’s all of that, plus a newborn, and a sister who acts like a guest. She gets child support from her ex, but doesn’t work. Just hangs out, laughs, makes plans all day. And then, without fail, she dumps the baby on me without asking. It’s always the same: a quick kiss on the head, a mumbled “Be back late,” and then, just before the door closes, “Oh, and don’t let the baby cry too long!” As if I haven’t spent the last five hours cleaning, cooking, studying, and making sure Mom takes her meds.
I walk into the nursery. The tiny face is red, contorted. Little fists flail. He just wants to be held, I think. Always when she leaves. I pick him up, instinctively nestling him against my shoulder. The warmth is immediate, comforting. His cries soften to whimpers, then to soft sighs. He smells like baby shampoo and milk. My life smells like baby shampoo and milk now.
I tried talking to her. “Have you looked into daycare? Or even a sitter?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. She just laughed. A loud, dismissive bark. “Daycare? That costs money! And you’re family.” It’s her favorite phrase, a shield to justify her complete abandonment. I’m family, so I’m her maid, her nurse, her bank, her unpaid nanny. I pay for groceries, utilities. I’ve even bought formula when her “child support” money mysteriously ran out. NO, I don’t have time for this! My part-time job barely covers my own expenses, let alone half a household. My grades are slipping.
Last night, he cried for hours. I was rocking him, exhausted, trying to finish an essay with one hand. My shoulder ached, my eyes burned. When she finally stumbled in at 3 AM, smelling faintly of cheap perfume and cigarettes, she just glanced. “Oh, still up, huh?” she mumbled, then vanished into her room. Another night gone. Another piece of me chipped away.
I put him back in his crib, watching his chest rise and fall. He’s so innocent, so helpless. And he loves me. He really does. He smiles at me, reaches for me. Sometimes, when he’s sleeping, I just sit there, watching him, a knot of conflicting emotions in my chest. Resentment, yes. But something else too. Deeper.
Three months before he was born, I lost mine. My own baby. A late miscarriage. Unexpected. Devastating. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Mom. She was too sick. My sister, too consumed with her “situation.” I pretended to be okay. Back to work, back to classes. Then, my sister announced her pregnancy. The same week my body reeled, my heart shattered. And now… now I hold her baby. I soothe him. I feed him. I love him with a ferocity that aches.
And she knows. SHE KNEW. She was there when I had to go to the emergency room, even if I just said “stomach bug.” She saw my face when I came back. She knows I grieve. She knows I dream of a baby. And every time she drops him off, every time she says “don’t let him cry,” every time she laughs about daycare, it’s not just an inconvenience. It’s a twist of the knife. Because she knows I will care for him. She knows I can’t not care for him. For these few hours, these endless days, this baby is… my only connection to what I lost. This isn’t just her negligence. It’s my quiet, desperate ache. And she weaponizes it. My heart is breaking. WHY DIDN’T I TELL ANYONE?
