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As I stepped through the gate, I didn’t notice my mother-in-law’s warm smile or my father-in-law’s slim figure sweeping the yard. What stopped me in my tracks was the sight of a row of baby diapers hanging on clotheslines. Some had yellow stains, others traces of milk.
I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move. My in-laws were well over sixty—far too old to have a baby. None of our relatives had ever left a child with them either. So whose diapers were they? Trembling, I entered the house. It was unusually quiet, but there was a faint scent of baby food in the air. A half-full baby bottle sat on the table. My chest tightened, thoughts swirling in my head. Was my husband hiding something from me?
Then, from the old bedroom my husband and I always used when we visited, came the sound of a baby crying. I rushed there, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the lock. As soon as the door swung open, I saw a newborn on the bed, kicking its tiny arms and legs, while my mother-in-law hurriedly changed its clothes.
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