For a brief second, I thought I saw it shift, not physically, but in the way my mind interpreted it, like it was something more than just a stain on skin.
I blinked, and it was just a mark again.
“Maybe we should call,” I said quietly, the words surprising even me as they left my mouth, carrying both hesitation and resolve.
He nodded immediately, almost too quickly, relief flickering across his face, as if my agreement had lifted something off his chest.
I picked up the phone, my fingers hesitating over Kendra’s number, suddenly aware that this call would open something we couldn’t easily close.
The dial tone felt louder than it should have, each second stretching, the space between rings widening until it felt like time itself had slowed.
On the third ring, she answered.
Her voice was calm, steady, almost too normal for the weight of what we were about to ask, and that normalcy made my chest tighten further.
“Hi,” I said, my voice carefully even, though I could feel my pulse in my throat, loud and insistent.
“There’s something we need to ask you about Sophia.”
There was a pause on the other end, not long, but long enough to be noticed, to settle into the cracks already forming inside me.
“What is it?” she asked.
I glanced at my husband, who stood rigid beside me, his eyes fixed on the floor now, as if he couldn’t bear to hear the answer directly.
I swallowed, then forced the words out, slow and deliberate, each one feeling heavier than the last.
“She has a mark on her back,” I said. “A very specific one.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
And in that silence, something shifted again, subtle but undeniable, like a truth turning its face toward us for the first time.
“What kind of mark?” Kendra finally asked, her voice quieter now, no longer as steady as before.
I described it, carefully, trying to keep my tone neutral, though my hands had begun to tremble slightly without my permission.
When I finished, there was no immediate response.
Just breathing.
Soft, controlled, but unmistakably there.
My husband looked up then, his eyes meeting mine for a brief second, and in that shared glance, we both understood something without saying it.
This wasn’t unexpected.
“Listen,” Kendra said at last, her voice low, almost cautious, “there’s something I didn’t think would matter… but maybe it does.”
The room seemed to still completely, even Sophia’s small movements settling as if the air itself was holding its breath.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper now.
Another pause.
And then, quietly, carefully, like someone stepping onto fragile ground, she began to speak.
Kendra’s voice trembled slightly as she continued, each word measured, as if she had rehearsed this explanation but never truly believed she would need to say it.
“My sister had a child years ago,” she said quietly, “and the baby had a mark just like the one you’re describing on Sophia’s back.”
I felt my grip tighten unconsciously around Sophia, my eyes dropping to that small, unsettling shape, now carrying more meaning than I wanted to accept.
“What happened to that child?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt, though something inside me was already bracing for the answer.
