When I was 12, I overheard my grandparents talking about “the first boy.”
I asked my parents. They waved it off.
Years later, the truth came out: they had lost a stillborn son before I was born. I had an older brother, if only briefly.
They planted a tree in his honor in the local park.
I visit it every year on his birthday. I bring a flower. I sit beneath its shade and whisper thanks.
Some grief is quiet — but never forgotten.
7. A Second Family, a First Betrayal
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