“Did you ever ask me, without my mom in the room, if I wanted my son placed with another family?”
Doctor Jefferson lowered his gaze.
“No.”
“Did you ask Watson?”
“No.”
“Then you never confirmed consent,” I said. “You had a grieving woman’s signature and my mother’s version of grief.”
He remained silent.
“I told myself Rowan needed a stable home.”
“He had one,” Watson said. “It was ours.”
I picked up the bracelet.
“I’m filing for every record. Every page. Every note. And then I’m filing complaints wherever I need to.”
Doctor Jefferson nodded.
“No,” I said. “You don’t understand. But you will.”
Watson looked at him.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know now,” the doctor said. “The couple moved years ago.”
I raised the photograph.
“He found us first.”
When we returned home, the birthday party was still going.
Riley and Rex were laughing somewhere in the backyard.
My mother’s car was parked near the curb.
Watson reached for my hand.
“Let me go in first.”
“No,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”
We walked up the porch steps together.
A tall young man stood near the railing, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to knock or disappear.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I left the box and walked away. But I heard them laughing out back, and I couldn’t leave.”
I knew who he was before he said another word.
“Rowan.”
His eyes filled.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to call you.”
“You don’t have to call me anything yet.”
He looked at Watson.
“Are you angry?”
Watson made a broken sound.
“At you? Never.”
Rowan looked back at me.
