I found your address in a locked folder my adoptive parents kept with my bracelet, placement papers, and your signed forms.”
“I didn’t believe that at first.”
I looked 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?”
“I know, Dawn.”
Watson stared at the box. “What else is in there?”
I pulled out a copied form.
The words blurred at first. Medical release. Placement. Best interest. Extended care.
At the bottom was my signature.
It was thin, crooked, and barely mine.
Beside it was Watson’s.
“I don’t remember signing this,” I whispered.
“What else is in there?”
Watson took the page. His hands started to shake.
“I remember a clipboard.”
I looked at 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 turned.
“What?”
“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 fast the box nearly fell.
***
For eighteen years, I’d remembered pieces of that hospital night.
Doctor Jefferson walking toward us.
My mother wrapping her arms around me.
“She said you couldn’t face it.”
Someone saying, “He’s gone, Dawn.”
I was sedated, broken, and too weak to hold a pen without help.
After that, everything blurred.
***
Now I looked at Watson. “I need the old folder.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
He followed me to the hall closet while music thumped outside.
“I need the old folder.”
I pulled down the plastic bin and dumped the hospital papers across the bedroom floor.
Watson knelt beside me. “What are we looking for?”
“Proof that Rowan died.”
His hands stopped moving.
I found Riley’s discharge papers, Rex’s feeding chart, condolence cards, and the funeral receipt my mother had handled because I could barely stand.
“What are we looking for?”
But there was no death certificate. My mother had always said the official papers were safe in her fireproof box.
“Watson.”
He looked at the empty space in the folder.
“There’s nothing,” I said.
“Maybe Peggy kept it.”
“Of course she did.”
But there was no death certificate.
Then I found Doctor Jefferson’s old card with a message written 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.”
He looked at the copied form on the bed.
I grabbed my keys. “We’re going to Doctor Jefferson.”
Watson stood. “Now?”
“Right now.”
“We’re going to Doctor Jefferson.”
***
Doctor Jefferson looked older than I remembered. His receptionist tried to stop us, but I held up Rowan’s bracelet.
“Tell him it’s about the baby he told me was dead.”
A minute later, after the receptionist showed him the bracelet, he opened his door.
I placed the bracelet on his desk. “Where did this come from?”
His face changed.
“Where did this come from?”
“Where did you get that?”
“From my son.”
He looked at 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.”
“I want Rowan’s records.”
“Fine. Answer one question.” I leaned forward. “Did Rowan die?”
Doctor Jefferson sat down slowly. “Rowan was critically ill.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His hands folded. “He stabilized after the transfer.”
I gripped the 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.”
“Rowan was critically ill.”
“By me?”
He looked away.
That was more than enough.
“By my mom,” I said. “Right?”
Watson’s voice cracked. “We buried him.”
Doctor Jefferson swallowed. “Your mother arranged the memorial. I was told you and Watson understood there would be no viewing.”
“We buried him.”
“The family?” I asked. “Or her?”
Silence.
“Did you ever ask me, without my mom in the room, if I wanted my son placed with another family?”
Doctor Jefferson looked down. “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.”
Doctor Jefferson looked down.
“I told myself Rowan needed a stable home.”
