She smiled so big her cheeks could break. Her little hands clasped around her baby sister like she practiced in her fantasies. The yellow blanket contrasted with her red suspenders, but she didn’t care.
I watched from the hospital bed, fatigued, stitched, hormone-high, and afraid. My firstborn, Lina, was an only child for four hectic years. Every night, she kissed my tummy. Every morning, she wondered, “Is she here yet?”
Now she was. I thought—we’re OK.
Lina then leaned in. Nearly brushing her sister’s nose. Near-whispered voice.
She responded, “Now I have someone to keep the secrets with.”
I blinked. “Secrets?”
She nods. Still beaming. “Like the ones I don’t tell Dad.”
Before I could inquire what she meant, she glanced up with her large brown eyes and said, “It’s okay. She won’t say either.”
