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.”
