His shoulders trembled.

And then the tears came.

Silent at first, rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t look at us. He just whispered, barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator, “My birthday was yesterday.”

My stomach dropped.

I blinked at him, convinced I had misheard. “Sweetheart… what?”

His voice cracked as he repeated it louder. “My birthday was yesterday. Not today.”

I felt the room tilt. The documents, the adoption papers, the files—all of them clearly said today. “But… the papers said your birthday was today,” I whispered, confused, almost pleading for him to say he was joking, that I had somehow misunderstood.

He shook his head, swiping at his cheeks. His voice was sharper this time, trembling with something deeper than just sadness. “They made a mistake. Today’s my brother’s birthday. Not mine.”

My heart stopped. The air left my lungs as