Stefan loved the pond most. He would stand near the railing and count the ducks as if the number changed something important about the universe. I would sit nearby and watch him, his brown curls bouncing as he ran from the swings to the slide and back again.
That Sunday started like any other.
Stefan had recently entered that wonderful age where imagination fills every corner of life. Some nights he spoke about space explorers visiting his dreams; other nights he insisted monsters were politely hiding under his bed.
We were walking past the swings when he suddenly stopped.
I nearly bumped into him.
“Mom,” he said quietly.
“What is it, honey?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared across the playground with a focus so intense that it made my stomach tighten.
Then he spoke again, with the calm certainty children sometimes have when adults least expect it.
“He was in your belly with me.”
For a moment I didn’t understand what he meant.
“What did you say?” I asked slowly.
Stefan lifted his hand and pointed toward the far end of the playground.
On one of the swings sat a small boy pushing himself gently back and forth. His jacket looked thin for the chilly weather, and his jeans were worn at the knees, but those details faded into the background almost instantly.
Because I recognized his face.
The same brown curls.
The same soft curve of eyebrows.
The same small habit of biting his lower lip when concentrating.
And on his chin was a crescent-shaped birthmark.
The exact same mark Stefan had.
The air seemed to vanish from my lungs.
For illustrative purposes only
The doctors had been clear. The second baby hadn’t survived.
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