One of My Triplets Passed Away Six Months After Birth – On Their 18th Birthday, I Found a Box on the Doorstep Labeled, ‘Happy Birthday, Brothers!’

I handed him the letter.

“Read it.”

He shook his head.

“Watson. Read it.”

His voice cracked on the first sentence.

“My name is Rowan. I was told you loved my brothers but couldn’t love all three of us.”

Watson covered his mouth.

I took the letter back and forced myself to continue.
“I didn’t believe that at first.

Then I found papers with your signatures. I don’t know if you gave me away or if someone made that choice for you. But I need the truth before I spend the rest of my life hating the wrong person.

I found your address in a locked folder my adoptive parents kept with my bracelet, placement papers, and your signed forms.”

I stared at Watson.

“I didn’t give him away.”

“I know.”

“I would’ve crawled through fire for him.”

“I know, Dawn.”

“Then why does he have our signatures?”

Watson looked toward the box.

“What else is in there?”

I pulled out a photocopied form.

At first, the words blurred together.

Medical release.

Placement.

Best interest.

Extended care.

At the bottom was my signature.

Thin.

Uneven.

Barely recognizable as mine.

Next to it was Watson’s.

“I don’t remember signing this,” I whispered.

Watson took the document from me.

His hands began trembling.

“I remember a clipboard.”

I turned toward him. “What?”

“At the hospital, sweetheart. Your mother handed it to me. She said you had already signed. She said they needed mine so Rowan wouldn’t suffer.”

My stomach twisted.

“Peggy said that?”

He nodded. “She said you couldn’t face it. She said I had to be strong enough for both of us.”

I stood so quickly the box almost slid from the bed.

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