I thought I’d spent eighteen years grieving one of my triplets. Then a box appeared on my sons’ birthday labeled “Happy Birthday, Brothers,” and the note inside led me back to the hospital, my mother, and a truth I was never supposed to survive.
I’d just gone inside to frost the cake. The kitchen was loud with backyard noise leaking through the open window: music, shouting, and the kind of laughter that only came from eighteen-year-old boys.
My husband, Watson, came in and kissed the side of my head.
“You okay?”
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“I’m fine.”
He looked at the cake.
Two big candles sat beside it. One and eight.
“You okay?”
Behind the flour tin, where only I could see it, was the tiny white candle I lit every year for Rowan.
Watson followed my eyes.
“I’ll light it with you later,” he said.
“After everyone leaves.”
He nodded.
We’d never let Riley and Rex forget their brother. Rowan wasn’t a secret in our house. He was one of my sons.
That was how I’d counted them since the day they were born.
Watson followed my eyes.
Then the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it, hon,” I said, wiping frosting from my thumb.
Watson glanced toward the yard. “Probably another kid who forgot which gate to use.”
I opened the front door, expecting a teenager with a gift bag and grass on his shoes.
No one was there.
There was only a small brown box on the welcome mat. There wasn’t a shipping label or a stamp, just a message in black marker across the top.
“I’ll get it, hon.”
“Happy Birthday, Brothers.”
My body went cold.
“Who is it?” Watson called from the kitchen.
“No one.”
