“Yes.”
Her expression changed.
The shock became something else.
Betrayal.
“You all kept this from me?”
“We thought we were protecting you,” I said.
Her eyes snapped toward me.
“Protecting me from what?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
“From knowing I had a sister?”
“From feeling guilty.”
“For being alive?”
“Yes.”
She stared at me.
“So you decided how I would feel before I even knew?”
“I was scared.”
“You were scared?”
Her voice rose.
“What about me?”
Then she pointed toward the chest.
“What’s inside?”
David swallowed.
“I started it the night Rosie died.”
He opened the lid.
Carved into the inside were two names.
HANNAH & ROSIE.
Inside were two hospital bracelets.
Two newborn hats.
A tiny pink blanket.
Photographs.
So many photographs.
Pictures I hadn’t seen in nearly eighteen years.
Me holding both girls.
David asleep on the couch with one baby resting on his chest and the other in his arm.
The twins side by side wearing matching sleepers.
There were sympathy cards.
Rosie’s birth certificate.
Her death certificate.
And a stack of envelopes tied with blue ribbon.
Hannah picked up the first envelope.
Written on the front was:
HANNAH — AGE 1.
“What are these?”
David looked at her.
“Letters.”
“From who?”
“Me.”
“To me?”
He nodded.
“One for every birthday.”
She stared at him.
“What are they about?”
“Rosie.”
Her face changed again.
“You wrote me a letter every birthday about the twin sister you refused to tell me existed?”
“Yes.”
