Then I hated myself for feeling relieved.
Then I felt guilty because I was holding one living child while thinking about the one who was gone.
Somewhere in that grief, David and I made a decision.
Hannah didn’t need to know.
At first, that seemed reasonable.
She was a baby.
Then she was three.
Then five.
You don’t sit a kindergartner down and say,
“You were born with a twin sister, but she died before you could remember her.”
At least, that’s what I told myself.
David wasn’t as certain.
When Hannah was seven, we were driving home from a birthday party when he said,
“Maybe we should tell her soon.”
I stared through the windshield.
“Tell her what?”
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.
