Our daughter’s twin sister died at nine days old, and we hid it for 18 years. At her birthday party, my husband brought something from the garage and said, “I started it the night she died.”
My daughter had a twin sister, Rosie, who died nine days after they came home. For eighteen years, Hannah believed she had been born alone.
Rosie was eleven minutes younger. Six pounds, one ounce. The coroner ruled it SIDS, meaning nobody was to blame.
I dismantled the second crib myself while my husband was at the funeral home.
We told ourselves Hannah was too young to understand. Then she was five. Then twelve. Then applying to college. There was always another reason to wait.
My mother removed Rosie’s hospital photo. My sister stopped saying her name at Thanksgiving.
Once a year, my husband would say, “She has a right to know.”
And I’d answer, “Know what? That she’s the one who lived?”
