“I should have known her name.”
That sentence broke me.
“Yes.”
“I should have had photographs.”
“Yes.”
“I should have understood why Grandma sometimes cried on my birthday.”
I covered my mouth.
Hannah looked at both of us.
“I’m not saying you wanted to hurt me.”
“We didn’t,” David said.
“I know.”
She wiped her eyes.
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
That was the first honest conversation the three of us had ever had about Rosie.
It wasn’t the last.
A week later, Hannah asked where her sister was buried.
She had never been to Rosie’s grave.
Of course she hadn’t.
We had somehow managed to hide an entire grave from our daughter.
Even now, that sentence makes me ashamed.
We went on a Saturday morning.
Just Hannah, David, and me.
David brought flowers.
I brought nothing.
Hannah carried the letter David had written on her first birthday.
Rosie’s headstone was small.
ROSIE W.
BELOVED DAUGHTER.
Nine days separated the birth and death dates.
Hannah stood silently for a while.
Then she touched the stone.
“Hi.”
