“She has the right to know.”
“And then what?” I would say. “She spends the rest of her life wondering why she survived and Rosie didn’t?”
“Maybe she won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
That usually ended the conversation.
Sometimes I resented David for bringing Rosie up.
Other times, I resented him for allowing me to silence him.
The truth was, I had held two babies in my arms for nine days.
Then I had been left with only one.
I had spent years pretending the missing child had never existed.
David handled his grief differently.
Every year after Hannah’s birthday celebration, he disappeared into the garage for about an hour.
I never asked what he was doing.
I assumed he needed time alone.
I had my own rituals.
I always did laundry on Hannah’s birthday, even if there wasn’t enough for a full load.
Folding towels calmed me.
We had become experts at grieving separately.
Then Hannah turned eighteen.
We threw a party at our house.
About thirty people came.
Relatives.
Neighbors.
Friends.
My brother handled the grill.
My sister brought far too much potato salad.
There was a grocery-store cake with HAPPY 18TH, HANNAH! written in blue frosting.
