home.
He was one of our sons.
We had brought only two babies home from the hospital because Doctor Jefferson told us Rowan had died before he became strong enough to leave.
That was the truth I had lived with since the day they were born.
Then the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it, hon,” I said, wiping frosting from my thumb.
Watson glanced toward the backyard. “Probably another kid who forgot which gate to use.”
I walked to the front door expecting to find a teenager carrying a gift bag
