I told myself,
We cannot tell her now.
At fifteen, she became anxious about grades.
At sixteen, she went through her first painful breakup.
At seventeen, she was applying to colleges.
There was always something.
Always another reason to wait.
David kept bringing it up.
Usually when we were in the car, maybe because I couldn’t walk away.
“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.
