Two newborn hats.
A tiny pink blanket.
Photographs.
So many photographs.
Pictures I hadn’t seen in nearly eighteen years.
Me holding both girls.
David asleep on the couch with one baby resting on his chest and the other in his arm.
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.”
