“She di3d nine days after we brought you home.”

Silence.

I expected Hannah to cry.

She didn’t.

I expected yelling.

Nothing.

Instead, she asked one question.

“Does everyone know?”

That hurt worse.

David nodded.

“Yes.”

“Grandma knows?”

“Yes.”

“Uncle Matt?”

“Yes.”

“Aunt Lisa?”

“Yes.”

She looked at me.

“Everybody knew?”

I swallowed.

“Yes.”

Her expression changed.

The shock became something else.

Betrayal.

“You all kept this from me?”

“We thought we were protecting you,” I said.

Her eyes snapped toward me.

“Protecting me from what?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

“From knowing I had a sister?”

“From feeling guilty.”

“For being alive?”

“Yes.”

She stared at me.

“So you decided how I would feel before I even knew?”

“I was scared.”

“You were scared?”

Her voice rose.

“What about me?”

Then she pointed toward the chest.

“What’s inside?”

David swallowed.

“I started it the night Rosie died.”

He opened the lid.

Carved into the inside were two names.

HANNAH & ROSIE.

Inside were two hospital bracelets.

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.”

“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.

I followed.

She grabbed her purse.

“Where are you going?”

“I need space.”

“Please don’t leave like this.”

She turned toward me.

“How exactly am I supposed to leave?”

I had no answer.

She spent the night at my sister’s house.

The next morning, David placed the wooden chest on our dining table.

I couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”

He looked exhausted.

“Because you would have gotten rid of it.”

“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.”

I looked at him.

“You should have made me tell her.”

His expression hardened.

“I tried.”

“No. You asked me.”

“Helen, you know I tried.”

“You brought it up and then accepted no.”

“What was I supposed to do? Tell our daughter behind your back?”

I looked at him.

“Maybe.”

The word surprised both of us.