I thought my five-year-old daughter’s family drawing was just another colorful moment destined for the fridge. Crayon smiles, stick-figure arms, bright suns in the corner—her usual joyful style. But when I looked closer, my breath caught. There was an extra child in the picture, a small boy holding her hand as if he had always belonged there. When I asked her about it, she smiled softly and said, “That’s my brother.” The words felt impossible. Anna was our only child—or so I believed. I laughed it off at first, assuming it was imagination, but something in her voice stayed with me. It was calm, certain, and oddly protective, as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t meant to explain.

That night, sleep refused to come. My mind replayed her words again and again, while my husband slept beside me, peaceful and unaware. By morning, I knew I couldn’t ignore …

I thought my five-year-old daughter’s family drawing was just another colorful moment destined for the fridge. Crayon smiles, stick-figure arms, bright suns in the corner—her usual joyful style. But when I looked closer, my breath caught. There was an extra child in the picture, a small boy holding her hand as if he had always belonged there. When I asked her about it, she smiled softly and said, “That’s my brother.” The words felt impossible. Anna was our only child—or so I believed. I laughed it off at first, assuming it was imagination, but something in her voice stayed with me. It was calm, certain, and oddly protective, as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t meant to explain. Read More