The twins side by side wearing matching sleepers.
There were sympathy cards.
Rosie’s birth certificate.
Her death certificate.
And a stack of envelopes tied with blue ribbon.
Hannah picked up the first envelope.
Written on the front was:
HANNAH — AGE 1.
“What are these?”
David looked at her.
“Letters.”
“From who?”
“Me.”
“To me?”
He nodded.
“One for every birthday.”
She stared at him.
“What are they about?”
“Rosie.”
Her face changed again.
“You wrote me a letter every birthday about the twin sister you refused to tell me existed?”
“Yes.”
That was when Hannah stood.
“This is insane.”
“Hannah—”
“No.”
She backed away from us.
“You all lied to me for eighteen years.”
“We thought—”
“I know what you thought.”
She looked at David.
“You kept all of this?”
“Yes.”
“But you still didn’t tell me?”
“I should have.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He went quiet.
Her eyes moved toward me.
“Because Mom wouldn’t let you?”
David shook his head.
“That isn’t fair. We were both afraid.”
Hannah gave a short, bitter laugh.
“Great.”
Then she walked inside.
