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Then she was 15 and anxious about grades.
At 16, she was dealing with her first breakup.
At 17, she began applying to colleges.
There was always something.
There was always a reason not to tell her.
David kept asking.
Usually in the car.
Maybe because I couldn’t walk away while he was driving.
“She has a right to know.”
“And then what?” I’d say. “She spends the rest of her life wondering why she’s here, and Rosie isn’t?”
“Maybe she won’t do that.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you.”
That usually ended the conversation.
He never forced it.
Sometimes I resented him for bringing it up.
Sometimes I resented him for dropping it.
I held two babies for nine days and was left with a lifetime of trauma.
I had both joy and grief in my hands.
I felt like I was the only person in the house who acted as if one of them had never existed.
At least David spoke about her to me. I never brought her up unless David did.
Every year on Hannah’s birthday, after dinner, David went into the garage.
Usually for an hour. Sometimes more.
I never asked why. I assumed he needed quiet.
I had my own rituals.
I did laundry on birthdays even when there wasn’t enough for a full load.
Something about folding towels calmed me down.
We became experts at grieving separately.
Then Hannah turned 18.
We had about 30 people at the house.
Family, a few neighbors, and her friends.
My brother was at the grill.
My sister brought enough potato salad to feed a football team.
There was a sheet cake from the grocery store with “Happy 18th, Hannah!” written in blue icing.
Hannah was thrilled because we’d bought her a used car.
It was not fancy, but it was hers.
When David handed her the keys, she screamed.
“Oh, my God!”
She threw both arms around his neck.
“You actually bought it?”
He laughed. “No, that’s just some random car I came by.”
She hit his shoulder.
I remember watching them and thinking how happy she looked.
That should have stopped him.
For years, happiness had always stopped us.