It was the clotheslines.
Strung across them, dozens of small baby diapers fluttered in the breeze. Some were stained with formula, others with signs of use. The sight stopped me cold. My in-laws were well into their sixties—far too old to be caring for a newborn themselves. None of our relatives had left a child in their care.
Clues Inside the House
I stepped into the house with trembling hands. The air was unusually quiet, but a faint smell of baby formula hung in the air. On the table sat a half-empty bottle.
My chest tightened. Could my husband be hiding something from me?
Then I heard it—a soft but unmistakable cry coming from the bedroom my husband and I always used during visits. My heart raced as I rushed to the door. The moment I pushed it open, the truth spilled out before me.
There, lying on the bed, was a tiny infant, arms flailing in the air. My mother-in-law hovered over him, hastily changing his clothes. The color drained from her face when she saw me.
“Mom… whose baby is this?” I whispered, my voice shaking.
The Painful Truth
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