Some
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.
