There are moments that shatter you, crack open your chest, and leave you gasping for air. For me, it was four simple words my sister said about her four-year-old adopted daughter: "I gave her back."

We hadn't seen my sister Erin in months. She lived a few states away, and with her pregnancy, we gave her space. But when she gave birth to a baby boy, the whole family decided to visit. We wanted to celebrate.

I filled my car with carefully wrapped gifts and a special teddy bear for Lily, my four-year-old goddaughter.

When we pulled up to Erin's suburban home, I noticed the yard looked different. The plastic slide Lily loved was gone. So was her little garden of sunflowers we planted together last summer.

Erin answered the door bouncing a swaddled bundle in her arms. "Everyone, meet Noah!" she announced, turning the baby to face us.

We all cooed warmly. Mom immediately reached for him, and Dad started snapping pictures. I glanced around the living room, noticing all traces of Lily were gone. No photos on the wall. No scattered toys. No stick figure drawings.

"Where's Lily?" I asked, smiling, still holding her gift.

The second I said her name, Erin's face froze. She exchanged a quick glance with her boyfriend, Sam, who suddenly became very interested in adjusting the thermostat.

Then, without an ounce of shame, she said: "Oh! I gave her back."

"What do you mean, 'gave her back,'" I asked, certain I misheard.

Mom stopped rocking baby Noah, and Dad lowered his camera. The silence felt like concrete hardening around my feet.

"You know I always wanted to be a boy mom," Erin sighed, as if explaining something obvious. "Now I have Noah. Why would I need a daughter? And don't forget, Lily was adopted. I don't need her anymore."

"You GAVE HER BACK?!" I yelled, my gift box dropping to the floor. "She's not a toy you return to the store, Erin! She's a child!"

She rolled her eyes. "Relax, Angela. She wasn't really mine anyway. It's not like I gave up my own kid. She was just... temporary."

The word hit me like a slap. Temporary? As if Lily had been nothing more than a placeholder until the real thing came along.

"TEMPORARY?" I repeated, my voice rising. "That little girl called you 'Mommy' for two years!"

"Ah, well, she can call someone else that now."

"How can you say that, Erin? How can you even think about it?"

"You're making this into something it's not," she snapped. "I did what was best for everyone."

I thought of all the times I watched Erin with Lily — reading her stories, brushing her hair, and telling everyone who would listen that she was her daughter. How many times had I heard her say, "Blood doesn't make a family, love does."