He looked at me.
“The truth about Rosie.”
“Why?”
“Because she deserves to know.”
“She’s seven.”
“I didn’t say tonight.”
“Then when?”
He couldn’t answer.
That became the pattern.
David brought up Rosie.
I shut the conversation down.
He eventually stopped pushing.
Then another year passed.
Every September 9, Hannah had a birthday.
Cake.
Balloons.
Presents.
Sleepovers when she became older.
And every September 9, I woke up thinking about another child.
Rosie at ten.
Rosie at fourteen.
Rosie at sixteen.
I never said her name around Hannah.
Nobody did.
My mother removed the photograph from the hospital that showed me holding both babies.
My sister learned not to mention Rosie at family gatherings.
Once, my father accidentally said “the girls” when Hannah was eight.
I shot him such a sharp look that he immediately changed the sentence and pretended he had meant Hannah and her cousin.
Everyone knew.
Everyone helped hide it.
Now, saying that out loud sounds terrible.
Back then, I called it protection.
When Hannah was twelve, she struggled socially.
She came home crying constantly.
I told myself,
We cannot tell her now.
At fifteen, she became anxious about grades.
At sixteen, she went through her first painful breakup.
At seventeen, she was applying to colleges.
There was always something.
Always another reason to wait.
David kept bringing it up.
Usually when we were in the car, maybe because I couldn’t walk away.
