“I want Rowan’s records.”
“Fine. Answer one question.” I leaned forward. “Did Rowan die?”
Doctor Jefferson sat down slowly. “Rowan was critically ill.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
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His hands folded. “He stabilized after the transfer.”
I gripped the desk. “You told me he died.”
“I was told you understood the placement option. Your mother said the private placement had already been discussed with the social worker.”
“Rowan was critically ill.”
“By me?”
He looked away.
That was more than enough.
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“By my mom,” I said. “Right?”
Watson’s voice cracked. “We buried him.”
Doctor Jefferson swallowed. “Your mother arranged the memorial. I was told you and Watson understood there would be no viewing.”
“We buried him.”
“The family?” I asked. “Or her?”
Silence.
“Did you ever ask me, without my mom in the room, if I wanted my son placed with another family?”
Doctor Jefferson looked down. “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.”
Doctor Jefferson looked down.
“I told myself Rowan needed a stable home.”
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.”
“It was ours.”
Watson’s voice cracked. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know now,” the doctor said. “The couple moved years ago.”
I held up the photo. “He found us first.”
***
When we pulled into the driveway, the party was still loud. Riley and Rex were still laughing in the backyard, and my mother’s car sat near the curb.
Watson reached for my hand. “Let me go in first.”
“He found us first.”
“No,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”
We climbed the porch steps together.
A tall boy stood near the railing, as if he’d been deciding whether to knock or run.
“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 him before he said another word.
“You’re coming with me.”
“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. “I just needed to know if I was unwanted.”
“No.” I stepped closer, then stopped. “Can I?”
“Are you angry?”
He nodded.
I touched his cheek with two fingers.
He was warm, real, and breathing.
“You were wanted every second, my boy.”
Then the patio door slid open behind us.
Mom stepped through with a bright gift bag. “Dawn? Why are you standing out front? I brought the boys their presents.”
He was warm, real, and breathing.
My mother stared at Rowan like she’d seen a ghost.
“Dawn,” she whispered.
I stepped between her and my son.
“Which boys, Mom?”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“You brought gifts for Riley and Rex,” I said. “But you knew there were three.”
Watson stood beside me. “You told us Rowan died.”
