I thought I had spent eighteen years mourning one of my triplets. Then, on my sons’ birthday, a box appeared with “Happy Birthday, Brothers” written across the top, and the note inside led me back to the hospital, my mother, and a truth I was never meant to uncover.
I had only gone inside to finish frosting the cake.
Through the open kitchen window came the noise from the backyard—music, shouting, and the kind of laughter that seemed to belong naturally to eighteen-year-old boys.
My husband, Watson, walked in and kissed the side of my head.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
His gaze shifted toward the cake.
Two large candles sat beside it.
One and eight.
Hidden behind the flour tin, where no one else could see it, was the tiny white candle I lit every year for Rowan.
Watson noticed where I was looking.
“I’ll light it with you later,” he said.
“After everyone leaves.”
He nodded.
