At first, I thought maybe Anna had drawn one of her friends from kindergarten. She was always coming home with doodles of her classmates, sometimes with crowns, sometimes with wings or silly hats. Trying to keep my voice calm, I tapped the crayon figure with my finger and asked gently,
“Sweetheart, who’s this? Did you add one of your friends to the picture?”
Her proud little grin vanished in an instant. The brightness drained from her face as if I’d said something dangerous. She clutched the paper to her chest, her tiny shoulders tightening.
“I… I can’t tell you, Mommy.”
The playful lilt in her voice was gone. It was small. Fragile.
My smile faltered, though I tried to keep it steady. “Why not, honey? It’s just a drawing.”
Anna’s eyes darted toward the floor, her voice dropping so low I had to lean forward to hear her.
“Daddy said… you’re not supposed to know.”
A sharp chill crawled up my spine. My throat tightened. “Not supposed to know what?”
She bit her bottom lip hard, fidgeting with the paper’s edge. Her little fingers wrinkled the page until the crayons smudged. Then, as if the words were too heavy to hold inside any longer, she blurted them out in a rushed whisper.
“That’s my brother. He’s going to live with us soon.”
The words hit me like a punch. My chest constricted, my heart hammering against my ribs.
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