PART 3

Hannah unfolded the letter.

She read part of it silently.

Then she placed a copy beneath the flowers.

There was something written on the back in her handwriting.

I didn’t read it.

I didn’t ask.

That belonged to her.

On the drive home, the wooden chest sat beside Hannah in the back seat.

She had decided to keep it in her room.

Not hidden.

Not displayed like a shrine.

Simply there.

Before we left the cemetery, Hannah said something I will never forget.

“I don’t want Rosie forgotten.”

“She won’t be.”

“I don’t want everyone pretending she never existed anymore.”

I looked at her.

“We won’t.”

And for the first time, I meant it.

For eighteen years, I believed silence protected Hannah from grief.

It didn’t.

It only delayed the grief.

And when the truth finally came, it brought betrayal with it.

She should have known.

Maybe not when she was three.

Maybe not at five.

But long before eighteen.

David had been right about that.

Hannah still gets angry sometimes.

So do I.

Mostly at myself.

But Rosie is no longer treated like someone who has to remain hidden in the past.

The hospital photograph is back on my mother’s wall.

There are two babies in it.

There always were.

And after eighteen years, we are finally allowed to look at both of them.

Say both names.

Remember both daughters.

And admit that Rosie was here.