Inside, I heard the shower running upstairs. And then I heard Mason crying—not the fussy kind, but the desperate, newborn kind.

He was alone in his bassinet, red-faced and wailing. I picked him up. He quieted instantly against my chest, tiny fingers clutching my shirt.

That’s when I noticed the Band-Aid on his thigh.

It wasn’t in a spot typical for a recent shot. It looked placed there… intentionally.

The corner was peeling. I lifted it gently.

And everything in me went cold.

It wasn’t an injury. It wasn’t something temporary.

It was a birthmark.

A very specific one.

The same one my husband has.