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I thought I’d spent eighteen years grieving one of my triplets. Then a box appeared on my sons’ birthday labeled “Happy Birthday, Brothers,” and the note inside led me back to the hospital, my mother, and a truth I was never supposed to survive.
I’d just gone inside to frost the cake. The kitchen was loud with backyard noise leaking through the open window: music, shouting, and the kind of laughter that only came from eighteen-year-old boys.
My husband, Watson, came in and kissed the side of my head.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He looked at the cake.
Two big candles sat beside it. One and eight.
“You okay?”
Behind the flour tin, where only I could see it, was the tiny white candle I lit every year for Rowan.
Watson followed my eyes.
“I’ll light it with you later,” he said.
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