For three days, she barely spoke to us.
She didn’t open the letters immediately.
That surprised Daniel.
“They’re hers,” I told him.
“She gets to decide.”
It was the first healthy decision I’d made about this secret in eighteen years.
On Wednesday night, I heard Hannah crying.
I found her sitting on her bedroom floor.
All eighteen letters were around her.
“Can I come in?”
She nodded.
I sat beside her.
She handed me the letter marked SEVEN.
Daniel had written:
Dear Hannah,
Today you lost your first tooth. You were furious because it happened at school and you thought the tooth fairy wouldn’t know where to find you.
Your sister never got teeth.
Sometimes grief is realizing that even the annoying things are gifts.
I covered my mouth.
Hannah handed me another.
FOURTEEN.
You slammed your bedroom door tonight and told me I was ruining your life.
I sat in the hallway trying not to laugh.
I would give anything to know what Rosie would have screamed at me at fourteen.
I laughed through my tears.
Hannah did too.
Then she became serious.
“Dad loved her.”
“Yes.”
“So did you.”
“Yes.”
“Then why did we act like she was shameful?”
