When my divorced, 45-year-old sister announced at Sunday dinner that she was six months pregnant, my mother sobbed, and my father ran for the “good champagne.” Ten minutes later, I stood frozen in the hallway, watching her unzip her stomach and peel off a fake baby bump.

I’ve always been the observant one in our family. Some call it being nosy, but I prefer to think of it as having a highly tuned internal radar.

So, when my sister started acting strangely, I noticed it almost immediately.

Natalie is 45, divorced, has an amazing daughter, and is the steadiest, most consistent person I know.

Or, at least, she was until about six months ago.

It started with small things.

We were at Mom’s for dinner when Natalie pushed her wineglass away.

Mom blinked, holding the bottle of merlot. “Since when do you refuse wine?

You said work was killing you.”

“Just trying to sleep better.” Natalie flashed a smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

I looked at her over my salad. Natalie loves her evening glass of red. Seeing her turn it down was like watching a fish decide it was tired of water.

I tucked it away in my mental “Something is Weird” file.

A few weeks later, the file got thicker.

I stopped by her house unannounced. I knocked, expecting a quick “Come in!” Instead, I heard frantic thumping.

When she finally opened the door, her chest was heaving. Her hair looked like she’d been caught in a gale.

“Were you napping?” I asked, trying to peer past her.

“No.” She stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door nearly shut. “Just cleaning.

Deep cleaning.”

Behind her, a heavy drawer slammed shut.

“Nothing. Want coffee?” she offered, steering me back toward my car. “Let’s go out.

My treat.”

My sister never suggests going out for coffee when her own kitchen is 20 feet away. I let her lead me away, but my brain was spinning. Was she hiding a guy?

The mystery deepened at another Sunday dinner, where Natalie showed up in a bulky sweater.

“Natalie, honey, you look… different,” Mom said.

Dad peered through his bifocals.

“You lose weight? Or gain it? Something is off.”

Natalie laughed.

“Probably just the lighting.”

She sat down with painstaking care, like her joints were made of glass. As she settled, I saw her hand instinctively brush her stomach.

It was a fleeting gesture, but it was enough to cement my theory about her odd behavior.

The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page