Co się stało, gdy przestałaś ukrywać ciążę przed rodziną?… Po raz pierwszy zdałam sobie sprawę, że moja rodzina może zrobić wszystko dla mojej siostry, gdy miałam dwanaście lat i krwawiłam przez białe szorty podczas grilla z okazji Czwartego Lipca…

„Okej” powiedziałem.

Aubrey exhaled like she’d won a negotiation.

Mom smiled, relieved. Dad returned to his chicken.

And just like that, my first pregnancy became a secret I didn’t get to own.

The next morning, Aubrey texted me at 7:12 a.m.

Remember our agreement. No social media. No telling extended family.

At 7:14, another message:

And don’t say anything at Maria’s wedding. I don’t want questions.

I stared at my phone, sitting at my kitchen counter with a prenatal vitamin bottle open beside my coffee. The tiny pill looked like nothing. Like something harmless.

But my stomach rolled anyway.

I typed back:

Okay.

Because that’s what I did. I made things easy.

I told myself it was temporary. That it was one dinner. A few weeks. That I could handle it.

And for the first couple days, I almost believed that.

Then the rules started multiplying.

When my cousin Maria’s wedding invitation arrived, Aubrey called me immediately.

“You’re showing,” she said, voice clipped. “Skip it.”

“I’m not showing,” I insisted.

“You are,” she snapped. “I can tell. And people will notice. Just say you’re sick.”

“It’s my cousin’s wedding.”

Aubrey laughed, short and mean. “And it’s my mental health. Pick one.”

I hung up and stared at my reflection in the microwave door—my stomach still flat enough that I could’ve worn my normal jeans if the nausea didn’t make my waistband feel like a punishment.

Evan came into the kitchen, saw my face, and immediately knew.

“What did she do?” he asked.

“She doesn’t want me to go to Maria’s wedding.”

Evan’s jaw tightened. “That’s insane.”

“She says I’m showing.”

“You’re twelve weeks,” he said. “You look like… you ate pasta.”

I tried to smile. It came out crooked.

Evan leaned on the counter, eyes locked on mine. “Are you okay with this?”

The honest answer was no.

But the practiced answer—the one my body knew how to give like muscle memory—came out first.

“It’s just… for a little while,” I said.

Evan’s nostrils flared, like he wanted to argue, but he took a breath.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “But we’re not doing this forever.”

I nodded.

I didn’t realize then how quickly “a little while” would turn into my whole second trimester.

Hiding a pregnancy sounds simple when people talk about it online. Like it’s just not posting a bump picture or skipping a toast.

In real life, it’s a thousand tiny lies that coat your tongue until you don’t recognize yourself.

At work, I had to bite down on the urge to vomit during meetings. I’d excuse myself, smile, and speed-walk to the bathroom like I wasn’t two seconds away from losing it. I kept crackers in my desk drawer and blamed “heartburn” when my coworker asked why I looked pale.

At a friend’s birthday dinner, someone slid a glass of wine toward me and I laughed too brightly.

“Antibiotics,” I said, hating every syllable.

At my best friend’s bachelorette weekend, I missed the whole trip because I couldn’t stand the idea of three days of champagne, hot tubs, and questions.

I told her I had a work thing.

She sounded disappointed, but she didn’t push.

And every time I lied, I felt like I was peeling off a layer of myself.

Aubrey didn’t just demand silence. She demanded control.

She texted me daily reminders.

No one knows. Don’t forget.
Don’t wear tight clothes around Mom. She’ll notice.
Don’t post pictures that show your stomach.
Remember: after my announcement.

Then she scheduled her “announcement” for my birthday week.

“I need the spotlight right now,” she told me over the phone, like she was requesting time off work. “My followers have been with me through this whole journey. I’m doing it next Thursday.”

“My birthday is Saturday,” I said carefully.

Aubrey paused. Then she said, “Yeah. And? It’s not like birthdays matter after thirty.”

I gripped my phone so tightly my fingers hurt.

When I told my mom I might want to share my news on my birthday—just a small family moment—she sighed like I was being unreasonable.

“Aubrey is fragile,” Mom said. “Be the bigger person.”

My dad’s opinion was even simpler: “Your sister’s been through a lot. Don’t poke the bear.”

Poke the bear.

Like my pregnancy was a stick.

Like my joy was an act of aggression.

Aubrey announced her pregnancy on Thursday with a polished Instagram reel: black-and-white footage of her and her husband, Ricardo, holding hands, then a dramatic shot of tiny baby shoes on a windowsill, then her crying into his shoulder while sad piano music played.

The caption was long. Emotional. About “two years of heartbreak” and “rainbows after storms.”

My mom sent it to the family group chat with a heart emoji and a dozen exclamation points.

OUR BABY IS HAVING A BABY!!!!!

Dad responded with a GIF of fireworks.

My relatives flooded the chat with congratulations.

I stared at the screen, my stomach turning over—not because I wasn’t happy for the idea of her being pregnant, but because of the quiet, ugly realization blooming in my chest:

Nobody had ever reacted to me like that.

Nobody had ever made my milestones the center of the room.

And I still hadn’t told anyone I was pregnant.

Evan found me sitting on the couch with my phone in my lap, tears sliding down my cheeks without me making a sound.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“She announced,” I whispered.

He nodded. “Okay. Good. Now we can tell.”

I swallowed hard. “She says… she wants me to wait two more weeks.”

Evan’s expression changed. Something in his eyes sharpened.

“Two more weeks for what?” he asked.

“She wants her moment. Her baby shower. Her gender reveal.”

Evan stared at me, like he was trying to decide if I was joking.

“You’re hiding your pregnancy so your sister can have… a longer spotlight?”

“She says my pregnancy triggers her anxiety,” I murmured.

Evan sat back, ran a hand through his hair, and looked like he was trying not to explode.

“This is our baby,” he said. “Not her therapy project. Not her storyline.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we doing this?”

Because my entire life had trained me to keep Aubrey calm. Because my parents had trained me to believe her feelings were emergencies and mine were inconveniences. Because compliance was easier than war.

But I didn’t say that.

I just said, “It’s almost time. I promise.”

Evan’s jaw clenched. “Okay. But I’m telling you right now—if she moves the goalpost again, I’m not playing.”

I nodded again.

And of course, Aubrey moved the goalpost.