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She looked down again.
“What is this?”
David swallowed. “I started it the night she died.”
He opened the chest.
Inside the lid, carved into the wood, were two names.
HANNAH & ROSIE.
Inside were two hospital bracelets.
Two newborn hats and a tiny pink blanket.
Photographs. So many photographs.
I recognized some immediately.
Pictures I hadn’t seen in nearly 18 years.
Me holding both girls.
David asleep on the couch with one baby on his chest and one in the crook of his arm.
Hannah and Rosie side by side in matching sleepers.
There were sympathy cards.
Rosie’s birth certificate.
A copy of her death certificate and envelopes.
Documents we had always kept locked away with the rest of the records from that year.
A stack of them tied together with blue ribbon.
Hannah touched the top one.
It said: “Hannah: Age 1.”
“What are these?”
“Letters.”
“From who?”
“Me.”
“To me?”
He nodded. “One for every birthday. They are about your sister.”
Hannah stared at the stack.
“You wrote to me every birthday about the sister you weren’t telling me I had?”
David’s face crumpled. “Yes.”
That was when she stood up.
“This is insane.”
“Hannah.”
“No.”
She backed away from the table.
“You all kept this from me.”
I said, “We thought we were protecting you.”
Her eyes snapped toward me.
“From what?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
“From knowing I had a sister?”
“From feeling guilty.”
“For being alive?”
“Yes.”