I always dreamed of becoming a mom. Not just biologically, but deeply, with intention — to change a child’s life and offer a safe, loving home. When I met Joey, something clicked instantly. He was quiet, observant, and held himself with a strange stillness. But every time I visited the foster center, he’d come a little closer. One day, he reached for the hem of my sweater and just held on. That tiny gesture broke me. It felt like he was asking, “Is it time yet?”

And eventually, it was.

I brought him home. I held his hand and told him, “You’re safe now. You’re staying.” He didn’t say much. Just nodded.

The first celebration
A week later, I threw him a birthday party — his first real one. He was about to turn five, and I wanted it to be unforgettable. Balloons, pancakes, carefully wrapped gifts — I spent hours planning. In the kitchen, we laughed while making the cake. He got flour all over himself. That moment felt perfect. I thought: This is it. He’s happy. He feels safe.

Then everything changed.

When he opened his present, the smile vanished. He sat silently at the table while I lit the candle. One small flame, and him — just staring at it. Not amazed, not joyful — confused, maybe even sad.

I gently pushed the plate toward him. “Happy birthday, Joey.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t even blow out the candle. He just looked at me, then said in a low, quiet voice:

“My birthday was yesterday.”

I blinked. “What? No… the paperwork says today.”

“They got it wrong,” he said. “Today is my brother’s birthday.”

My heart dropped.

“Wait… you have a brother?”

He nodded slowly, then stood up from the table.

“I need to show you something,” he said.

The secret space
He walked down the hall to his bedroom. I followed, confused. Everything looked normal — toys, clothes, shelves. Then Joey got on his knees and started pulling back the rug.

There, under the rug, was a small wooden hatch in the floor. I had never noticed it before.

“I didn’t put this here,” he said. “It was already here when I moved in.”

He opened the hatch. Inside, just an old toy car and a piece of paper, folded and yellowed.

He handed me the paper. It was a child’s drawing. Two stick figures. One smiling. One crossed out with a red X.

“That’s us,” he said softly. “Me and Noah. He didn’t get to come with me. They said he didn’t make it to the new year.”

I froze.

In all the documents, all the interviews — no one ever mentioned a brother.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked.

He looked at me and said something I still don’t know how to explain:

“He didn’t leave. He’s still here. He comes sometimes… when it’s dark.”

The truth behind the silence
That night, I sat by Joey’s bed long after he fell asleep, holding that crumpled drawing. He was curled up, the old toy car clutched in his hands. I didn’t know what to think. Was his brother real? Was this trauma speaking? Or something more?

The next day, I called the agency. After some hesitation, one of the case workers finally admitted:

“Yes… he had a twin brother. They came in together. Noah passed away from an infection just weeks later. We didn’t include it in his file — we didn’t want to retraumatize him. Or you.”

I hung up, speechless. He remembered everything. All this time, he knew. He carried the loss of his twin alone. A four-year-old boy, grieving silently in a new home, with new people, pretending to be okay.

The second birthday
Now, every year, we celebrate two birthdays. One for Joey. One for Noah.

We light a second candle. No cake, no song. Just silence. Just a flame.

Joey doesn’t say much about it. I don’t ask if Noah still “comes.” Some things aren’t meant to be explained. I don’t care if it’s memory, imagination, or something else entirely.

All I know is this:

There are two boys in our home. One I tuck in every night. The other — I carry in my heart.