For eighteen years, my memories of that hospital had existed only in fragments.
Doctor Jefferson walking toward us.
My mother putting her arms around me.
Someone saying, “He’s gone, Dawn.”
I had been sedated, devastated, and so physically weak that I could barely hold a pen without assistance.
Everything after that had dissolved into a blur.
I looked at Watson.
“I need the old folder.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
He followed me into the hallway while music continued pounding from the backyard.
I pulled the plastic storage bin from the closet and emptied the hospital paperwork across our bedroom floor.
Watson knelt beside me.
“What are we looking for?”
“Proof that Rowan died.”
His hands went still.
I found Riley’s discharge documents.
Rex’s feeding records.
Condolence cards.
The funeral receipt my mother had handled because I had barely been able to stand.
But there was no death certificate.
Mom had always told me the official documents were stored safely in her fireproof box.
“Watson.”
He stared at the empty section of the folder.
“There’s nothing,” I said.
“Maybe Peggy kept it.”
“Of course she did.”
Then I found Doctor Jefferson’s old business card.
Something had been handwritten on the back.
“I hope one day you find peace with the decision made for Rowan.”
Watson read it twice.
“Decision?”
“That’s what I thought.”
His eyes moved toward the placement form lying on the bed.
I grabbed my keys.
“We’re going to Doctor Jefferson.”
Watson stood.
“Now?”
“Right now.”
Doctor Jefferson looked much older than I remembered.
His receptionist initially tried to stop us, but I held up Rowan’s hospital bracelet.
“Tell him it’s about the baby he told me was dead.”
A minute later, after she showed him the bracelet, he opened his office door.
I placed it on his desk.
“Where did this come from?”
The expression on his face changed instantly.
“Where did you get that?”
“From my son.”
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