“I would not.”
He gave me a look.
“You dismantled Rosie’s crib before I came home from the funeral home.”
“That was different.”
“You made your mother remove the hospital photograph.”
“I couldn’t look at it.”
“Exactly.”
I sat down.
David ran his hand over the chest.
“I didn’t plan to keep it from you forever.”
“Eighteen years isn’t forever?”
“I kept thinking eventually you would be ready.”
I laughed softly.
“Apparently none of us was ever ready.”
I opened the box.
One of Rosie’s newborn hats sat near the top.
I touched it.
It was impossibly small.
My hands began shaking.
“I thought if I saw any of this again, I would fall apart.”
“I know.”
“That’s what you were doing in the garage every birthday?”
David nodded.
“I wrote Hannah another letter.”
“What did you write?”
“Everything I wished we were brave enough to tell her.”
