Chapter 4: Birthday Blues and Baby Breakthroughs

The only good thing about being a baby is that you can be willful.

I had a free pass to demand attention, no questions asked. It was the one power I held, and I wasn’t afraid to use it.

If I don’t see Ethan and Morgan for a few hours, I cry.

Every minute apart felt like an eternity. My wails were my way of keeping them close—of reminding them, and myself, that I belonged here.

The nanny skillfully checked the clock, confirmed it was noon dismissal, and called them.

She had their numbers on speed dial, ready for SOS Baby Hannah situations. You could tell she’d worked with enough rich kids to know the drill.

The call was quickly answered. “How’s Hannah today?”

Morgan’s voice was soft, but the worry was obvious. I babbled, reaching for the phone like I could climb through the screen.

Hearing Morgan’s voice, I babbled and reached for the phone.

My hands flapped wildly, desperate to make contact.

“Ah ah.”

It came out as nonsense, but she understood—somehow.

“Call me sis.”

Morgan teased, voice bright. I knew she was smiling, even if I couldn’t see her.

“Goose goose!”

My best attempt at "sis," which came out more like barnyard animal. She burst out laughing, the sound making me giggle, too.

A light laugh came from the other end, and soon the phone was taken by Ethan.

I recognized his tone immediately—firm, but with a trace of concern only I could pick up.

He quizzed the nanny on vaccines and formula, like he was prepping for a pop quiz.

He also asked how many ounces of formula I drank each time, whether my diapers were normal, and reminded her to give me regular tummy massages.

His checklist was exhaustive—he left nothing to chance. It was both endearing and a little funny, watching him grow into the role.

During this time, he’s basically become a professional male mom.

Morgan teased him about it constantly, but Ethan just rolled his eyes and focused on making sure I was okay.

Every time he comes home, he feeds me and changes my diaper.

You’d think he’d complain, but he never hesitated. He even Googled the best brands for sensitive baby skin.

Morgan plays with my rattle and guides me to practice speaking.

She’d kneel on the nursery rug, making silly faces and singing nursery rhymes off-key until I squealed with laughter.

The two have a clear division of labor. Although they often argue over who gets to hold me, the once-empty house is growing livelier by the day.

There was music in the halls, toys scattered across the living room, and for the first time, the Harris house felt like a home.

Today, they didn’t come home on time after school.

The hours stretched longer, the shadows in my nursery growing as dusk settled over the city skyline.

The butler coaxed me gently: “Brother and sister are going to the old house for their birthday today. They’ll be back a little late.”

He spoke softly, smoothing the edge of my favorite blanket. Outside, the city lights flickered on, one by one.

In the original plot, Mr. and Mrs. Harris were supposed to come back and celebrate their birthday for once.

It was a big deal—an annual event with the faint hope that this year would be different.

The siblings complained, but deep down, they faintly looked forward to it.

No matter how tough you act, you never outgrow wanting your parents to care.

They waited for their parents for a long time. When they called, they found their parents had already forgotten all about it.

The disappointment in their voices was thick enough to choke on. Silence hung on the line.

No apology, no guilt—just a casual money transfer on Venmo.

The Venmo notification pinged, cold and hollow, echoing in the empty kitchen. A notification pinged on Ethan’s phone: "For dinner. Happy birthday." That was it.

Were they short of money?

Hardly. What they needed couldn’t be bought, no matter how many zeroes were on the check.

What they lacked was the love and care they never received growing up.

Even a hundred Hallmark cards couldn’t fix that kind of ache.

So, to keep the little warmth the leads gave them, they were willing to fly into the flame like moths.

They clung to whatever scraps of affection they could find, even if it meant risking everything.

Sure enough, when they came back, one was gloomy, the other lonely.

They trudged through the door, Ethan’s head down, Morgan’s shoulders hunched. The air felt colder, heavy with things unsaid.

They didn’t even come to the nursery to see me, just went straight to their rooms.

I could hear the doors click shut—two islands in a sea of silence.

I sighed.

This couldn’t go on. If the adults wouldn’t step up, it was up to me.

And unleashed my ultimate move—

It was time for the Big Guns: the full-lunged, heart-shattering baby wail.

“Waa—”

The sound echoed through the halls, reverberating off the marble, impossible to ignore.

Soon, there was the sound of a door slamming. Ethan, face dark, came to my bedside to check my diaper.

He didn’t say a word—just scooped me up, his hands gentle even when he was upset.

“You didn’t poop. Why are you crying?”

He tried to sound annoyed, but I heard the worry underneath.

I said nothing, just kept crying. Even when he picked me up, he couldn’t comfort me.

I wailed louder, my eyes locked on his, refusing to let him look away.

Ethan was helpless and could only go call Morgan out.

He poked his head into her room, mumbling something. She emerged, eyes red, her anger barely contained.

Her eyes were a little red. She was already in a bad mood, and seeing me like this made her even angrier.

She stomped to the crib, face flushed, every movement sharp. She hovered over the crib, fists clenched, but her eyes shimmered with hurt.

She roughly set me in the crib.

For a moment, I thought she might storm out again. But she stayed, arms folded, waiting.

“Go to sleep.”

Her voice was flat, but I caught the tremble at the end.

I started to fiddle with the mobile above my head, struggling to make sounds as I did.

The little stars spun slowly, catching the light. I babbled, stringing together the only words I knew.

“Happy, happy, happy......”

Each word tumbled out, clumsy but earnest. The mobile chimed, a lullaby of hope.

The baby’s babbling and the tinkling sound of the mobile—

It was off-key and messy, but it was music all the same.

It really sounded like a birthday song.

I watched their faces soften, the anger melting away as they realized what I was trying to do.

They were stunned.

For once, the silence was filled with something good—a sense of belonging, however small.

After a while, Ethan raised his hand to cover his face and laughed out loud.

The sound was rough, unpracticed—like he hadn’t done it in a long time. But it was real.

Morgan was also infected—she turned her face away and snorted, but the curve of her lips grew more and more obvious.

She tried to hide it, but the smile kept creeping back, lighting up her whole face.

I finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Mission accomplished. Maybe being a baby had its perks after all.

Just as I was about to sleep, I saw Ethan turn on his phone camera.

He grinned, angling for the best light. "Gotta get this for the family album."

“Do it again, so you don’t complain on Instagram when you grow up that we never recorded you.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. Morgan rolled hers, but didn’t protest.

Me: >>>

If you want to show off to your friends, just say so.

Honestly, I didn’t mind. Let the world see: the Harris siblings could be happy, after all.