We sat in the living room, the four of us, and I asked my mother directly.
“Tell me about the third baby… my brother.”
My mother pressed her hands against her knees. She glanced at my father. He stared at the floor.
Finally she spoke.
They had been expecting triplets.
I was born first. Then Daniel. Everything seemed normal. But when Ben arrived, doctors discovered a problem with his right leg. They warned it would likely cause a permanent limp and require ongoing treatment.
My father finally spoke in a quiet voice.
“We were already struggling. We told ourselves another family might be able to give him the care we couldn’t.”
Ben sat beside me, silent.
Then he asked the question I hadn’t yet spoken.
“What happened the night of the fire?”
My mother covered her face.
The silence after that felt endless.
Finally she explained.
That evening she had placed a birthday cake in the oven for Daniel and me before she and my father left to buy presents. She set the timer but became distracted while leaving the house.
Daniel reminded her about the cake, but she told him she would be back before anything happened.
She forgot.
The cake burned. The overheated oven sparked the fire that spread through the house while Daniel and I were asleep upstairs.
