The boy knew something had changed before anyone
spoke.
The house felt different when he returned from school
that day—warmer, louder, full of movement that didn't
belong to it. His mother hummed softly in the kitchen.
His father's footsteps were lighter than usual.
It unsettled him.
He stood in the doorway, backpack still hanging from
one shoulder, watching as if he had walked into a scene
already in progress.
His mother turned and smiled. Not the tired smile she
usually wore. This one was careful. Fragile. Like
something she was afraid to drop.
"Come sit," she said.
The word sit made his stomach twist.
They gathered at the dining table. The chair felt too big
beneath him, his feet barely touching the floor. His
parents exchanged a look—one full of meaning he
couldn't access.
"There's something we want to tell you," his father
began.
The boy's hands clenched under the table. His mother reached out and placed a hand over her
stomach.
"I'm pregnant."
The words fell gently.
The room filled with warmth, with relief, with joy that
didn't belong to him.
His father laughed softly. His mother's eyes shimmered.
Plans were spoken aloud—names, rooms, toys, a future
that stretched forward easily for them.
For the boy, something else happened .Recognition.
Not surprise.
Not confusion.
Certainty.
His chest tightened as if something long unnamed had
finally been acknowledged. The girl's face flashed
behind his eyes—not as a thought, but as a memory.
That night, he sat at his desk long after the house fell
asleep.
The notebook lay open before him.
He didn't question it this time. His pencil moved with familiarity, tracing lines he
already knew. Smaller now. More fragile. The girl's
body curved inward, knees drawn close, as if protecting
something vital.
When he finished, he stared at the drawing until his
eyes burned.
"She's coming," he whispered.
The pressure behind his eye pulsed once, softly.
Days passed.
His mother grew tired more easily. She rested often,
her hand always returning to her stomach without
thought. The boy watched her carefully, counting
movements, memorizing patterns.
He began sitting closer to her. Leaning against her side He began sitting closer to her. Leaning against her side
when she rested. Pressing his ear gently against her
belly when he thought no one was looking.
Once, very faintly, he heard it.
A heartbeat.
Slow. Steady.
His own heart answered it immediately, speeding up as
if trying to match the rhythm.
He pulled away quickly, breath shaking. At school, his drawings changed.
The girl was no longer alone. Around her, shapes
appeared—soft curves, enclosing lines, protective
darkness. He didn't understand what he was drawing,
only that it felt necessary.
A classmate peered over his shoulder.
"Is that your sister?" she asked casually.
The word hit him harder than expected.
He snapped the notebook shut.
"I don't have one," he said too quickly.
That night, his dreams shifted.
No longer floating freely, he felt confined—safe, but
small. The crying returned, closer this time. He reached
out in the dream, fingers brushing something warm.
The crying stopped.
He woke with his hand pressed to his chest.
For the first time, he smiled in the dark.
He didn't know how to explain it.
He didn't try.
But deep inside, beneath fear and confusion, a single
truth settled quietly into place:
She wasn't just coming into the world.
She was already here.