We had never allowed Riley and Rex to grow up believing their brother had been forgotten.
Rowan was never a secret in our home.
He was one of our sons.
We had brought only two babies home from the hospital because Doctor Jefferson told us Rowan had died before he became strong enough to leave.
That was the truth I had lived with since the day they were born.
Then the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it, hon,” I said, wiping frosting from my thumb.
Watson glanced toward the backyard. “Probably another kid who forgot which gate to use.”
I walked to the front door expecting to find a teenager carrying a gift bag with grass stuck to his shoes.
Instead, the porch was empty.
A small brown box sat alone on the welcome mat.
There was no postage, no shipping label, and no return address.
Only four words written across the top in black marker.
“Happy Birthday, Brothers.”
My entire body went cold.
“Who is it?” Watson called from the kitchen.
“No one.”
I picked up the box.
It felt light, though something shifted inside when I moved it.
Watson stepped into the hallway and read the message.
“Maybe one of the boys ordered something.”
“No,” I said. “I’m taking it to our room. I don’t want them opening some cruel joke in front of everyone.”
His expression changed immediately.
He understood what those words had done to me.
I carried the box into our bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of the bed.
For nearly a minute, I simply stared at it.
Then I lifted the lid.
A folded note lay on top.
“Dawn,
