The moment I walked through the door holding my newborn, my 9-year-old daughter’s face went pale.

She burst into tears and yelled, Mom, please throw that baby away!The moment I walked through the door holding my newborn, my 9-year-old daughter’s face went pale.

She burst into tears and yelled, Mom, please throw that baby away! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and shouted back, Are you out of your mind?!She squeezed my hand so hard it hurt, trembling, and said in a tiny voice, You don’t understand… that baby is dangerous. And my heart started pounding like crazy.

The delivery room still smelled like antiseptic and warm cotton when the nurse laid my newborn son against my chest. He was red-faced and angry at the world, his tiny fist clenched like he already had something to prove.

“Congratulations, Emma,” my husband, Jason, whispered, brushing my sweaty hair back. His eyes were wet, and for a moment, I thought this was the happiest day of my life.

Then the door swung open.

My nine-year-old daughter, Lily, rushed in so fast her sneakers squeaked on the tile. Her cheeks were flushed like she’d been running the whole way from the waiting room. She didn’t smile. She didn’t even look at me.

She stared at the baby.

And suddenly her face crumpled.

She burst into tears and screamed, “Mom, throw that baby away! Right now!”

The room froze.

The nurse blinked like she hadn’t heard correctly. Jason stood up so quickly his chair scraped the floor.

“Lily!” I snapped, voice hoarse from labor. “What are you talking about?!”

Lily didn’t stop crying. She backed away, almost tripping over the foot of the bed, her hands shaking like she was freezing.

“Sweetheart,” Jason said softly, reaching for her, “it’s your brother. It’s—”

“NO!” Lily shrieked, and then her voice dropped into something small and trembling. She grabbed my arm, clutching hard like she needed to anchor herself to me. Her fingers were cold and clammy.

She leaned close and whispered, “Because… that baby.”