That destroyed me.
I sat down.
For eighteen years, I thought I had been the only person still counting two children.
I was wrong.
Daniel had been counting too.
He had simply been doing it in the garage.
Hannah picked up the first letter.
She didn’t open it.
She looked at me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
There it was.
The question I’d feared for eighteen years.
I had prepared hundreds of answers.
You were too young.
You were sensitive.
We wanted to protect you.
There was never a right time.
All of them sounded cowardly now.
So I told her the truth.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you’d feel guilty.”
“For being alive?”
I nodded.
Her face twisted.
“Mom.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
She stepped away.
“You let me live eighteen years without knowing I had a sister because you thought I couldn’t handle knowing she died?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make.”
“No.”
“You lied on every birthday.”
“Yes.”
“Every time I asked about when I was born?”
“Yes.”
Each answer hurt.
I made myself give them anyway.
“Grandma knew?”
“Yes.”
“Aunt Rachel?”
“Yes.”
“Uncle Kevin?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the house.
Thirty relatives stood behind the glass doors pretending not to watch.
