For eighteen years, I convinced myself that keeping my daughter’s twin sister a secret was an act of love.
I told myself I was protecting her.
Then, on her eighteenth birthday, my husband placed a wooden box in front of her and forced me to face something I had spent nearly two decades avoiding.
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Our daughter Hannah had been born with a twin.
Her name was Rosie.
And Hannah had never known she existed.
Rosie was eleven minutes younger.
She weighed six pounds, one ounce, and had dark hair.
There was a tiny crease beside her left eye that appeared whenever she Ali cried.
Hannah had always been the louder baby.
Rosie was quieter.
I used to joke that Hannah cried enough for both of them.
Then Rosie died.
She was only nine days old.
The official cause was SIDS.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
