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“I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE.”
Those were the first words out of my sister Lila’s mouth when I opened my front door that night.
She stood there rigidly, one hand gripping a small suitcase, the other shoved firmly against the back of her four-year-old son, Evan. He nearly lost his balance on his weak legs before instinctively grabbing onto my coat.
Lila wasn’t crying. There were no tears, no shame, no hesitation. Her face was tight with irritation, like she’d just finished an argument she was tired of having.
Before I could even ask what was wrong, she pushed Evan fully into my arms.
“I met someone,” she said bluntly. “He doesn’t want kids.”
I stared at her, my mind scrambling to catch up. “Sorry… what?”
“For God’s sake, Amy,” she snapped. “I deserve a better life. I’m still young. I can’t be trapped forever.”
My eyes dropped to Evan. He was clutching his tiny suitcase, his fingers trembling, his gentle smile still somehow in place. His legs—braced and fragile—were already shaking from standing too long.
“You’re just… leaving him?” I whispered.
Lila exhaled sharply. “You don’t understand. The doctors, the therapy, the money. It never ends. I’m exhausted.”
She lowered her voice, as if that made the next words acceptable.
“Honestly? I hate this boy. I want a normal life.”
Evan stiffened.
Then, as if trying to soften the cruelty, she added, “You’ve always loved him. You’ll do better than me.”
She placed his suitcase on the pavement, turned on her heel, climbed into a waiting car, and slammed the door shut.
The engine started.
And she never looked back.
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