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.

—

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.”

His eyes dropped toward the copied form in my hand.

“I want Rowan’s records,” I said.

“There are procedures, Dawn.”

“Then get me the form.”

“Dawn, I can’t discuss this without proper paperwork.”

“Fine. Answer one question.” I leaned toward him. “Did Rowan die?”

Doctor Jefferson slowly lowered himself into his chair.

“Rowan was critically ill.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

He folded his hands.

“He stabilized after the transfer.”

I gripped the edge of his 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.”

“By me?”

He looked away.

That answer was enough.

“By my mom,” I said. “Right?”

Watson’s voice broke.

“We buried him.”

Doctor Jefferson swallowed.

“Your mother arranged the memorial. I was told you and Watson understood there would be no viewing.”

“The family?” I asked. “Or her?”

He said nothing.

I stared at him.

“Did you ever ask me, without my mom in the room, if I wanted my son placed with another family?”

Doctor Jefferson lowered his gaze.

“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.”

He remained silent.

“I told myself Rowan needed a stable home.”

“He had one,” Watson said. “It was ours.”

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.”

Watson looked at him.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know now,” the doctor said. “The couple moved years ago.”

I raised the photograph.

“He found us first.”