I almost didn’t look twice at my five-year-old daughter’s drawing. It had all the familiar details—bright colors, smiling faces, a sun squeezed into the corner of the page—exactly the kind of artwork that usually ends up taped to the refrigerator. But something stopped me. Standing beside the three of us was another child, a small boy holding my daughter’s hand with quiet certainty. When I asked her who he was, she didn’t hesitate. “That’s my brother,” she said gently, as if stating something obvious. I laughed at first, assuming it was imagination, yet the calm confidence in her voice lingered...
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