On the fourth evening, she entered the kitchen holding one envelope.
HANNAH — AGE 12.
She looked at David.
“You wrote that you wanted to tell me that year.”
He nodded.
“You wrote that Mom thought I was already having a hard enough time.”
I looked down.
Then Hannah read another line.
“I hope someday you’ll understand that we were only afraid of what knowing might do to you.”
David’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t remember writing that.”
“Well, you did.”
She sat across from us.
Then she said something I had spent eighteen years being terrified I would never hear.
“I don’t feel guilty that I lived.”
I looked at her.
She was crying now.
“I feel sad that Rosie died.”
“So do we.”
“I feel strange knowing I had a twin and never knew.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I feel like I’m supposed to miss someone I never met.”
I reached across the table.
She let me take her hand.
