The second contained a tiny pink knitted cap.
The third, one photograph.
Two newborn girls asleep beside each other.
Hannah and Rosie.
My daughters.
Together.
I hadn’t seen that photograph in almost eighteen years.
I made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
Daniel opened another compartment.
Inside was a letter.
Then another.
And another.
Eighteen envelopes.
Each marked with a year.
ONE
TWO
THREE
All the way to:
EIGHTEEN
Hannah finally spoke.
“What are those?”
Daniel’s voice shook.
“Birthday letters.”
“To Rosie?”
He shook his head.
“To you.”
Hannah looked at him.
“I wrote one every year.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother wasn’t ready to tell you.”
I flinched.
Daniel corrected himself.
“Because we weren’t brave enough to tell you.”
He picked up the first envelope.
“I didn’t know when you’d learn about Rosie. But I was afraid that when you did, you’d think we’d erased her.”
His eyes filled.
“Or that we’d erased part of you.”
Hannah stared at the eighteen envelopes.
“You wrote to me about her?”
“Yes.”
“Every year?”
“Yes.”
“What did you write?”
“Whatever I remembered.”
He smiled through tears.
“Sometimes almost nothing.”
“Like what?”
“The way you slept facing each other.”
His voice broke.
“How Rosie always managed to get one hand out of her blanket.”
He touched the chest.
“How you sneezed and she startled.”
A tear finally slid down Hannah’s cheek.
Daniel continued.
“I wrote about your birthday too. Your first word. Kindergarten. The year you broke your arm. Your first dance recital.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed somewhere that both my daughters could exist at the same time.”
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.
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“One day my little daughter told me, ‘Mom, every time Grandpa gives me a bath, he asks me to play a game. I have to close my eyes, and while they’re closed, he does something…’ I froze. The next day, I opened the bathroom door without warning… and what I saw made my legs start shaking My daughter, Emily, was six years old when she first said the sentence that kept me awake almost the entire night. That afternoon, we were in the kitchen. I was making dinner while she sat at the table drawing. Then, without even looking up, she said, “Mom, did you know Grandpa and I have a game?” I smiled. My father, George, was seventy-six years old, and he and Emily were almost inseparable. He picked her up from school, read her stories, and taught her how to plant flowers in the garden. “What kind of game?” I asked. Emily thought for a moment. “When Grandpa gives me a bath, he tells me to close my eyes.” The knife in my hand stopped. I turned toward her. “Why?” She shrugged. “So we can play.” Okay?” She looked at me, confused. “But Grandpa doesn’t do anything bad.” That sentence should have reassured me. It didn’t. That night, I barely slept. My father had always been the person I trusted most. Whenever my husband had to work late, Dad came over to help me. Whenever Emily was sick, he could sit beside her for hours. I had never seen anything that made me suspicious of him. But now my mind had taken one sentence and built a hundred frightening possibilities around it. The next morning, I started remembering little things that had never seemed important before. A few weeks earlier, Dad had told me, “You’re busy. I’ll get Emily ready for bed.” Another time, the bathroom door had been closed. When I knocked, I heard both of them laughing. Back then, I had smiled. Now the same memory felt completely different. All day, I kept telling myself I was overreacting. But something in me refused to let it go. The next evening, Dad came over again. After dinner, Emily ran up to him. “Grandpa, are we going to play our game today?” I looked at my father. He smiled. “If your mom doesn’t mind.” “Of course,” I said. But I had already made up my mind. Ten minutes later, I heard the water running. Then Emily laughing. I slowly walked toward the bathroom. The door was closed, but not locked. I stepped close enough to hear them. Dad said, far from every terrible thing my mind had imagined that I just stood there for a few seconds. Emily was sitting safely in the tub, surrounded by bubbles and bath toys. Her eyes were closed. My father was holding a small cup in one hand, using it to rinse her hair, while in the other hand he held one of Emily’s rubber ducks. “Mom,” Emily laughed, “you ruined the game!” I looked at them, confused. “What game?” Dad slowly smiled. “Guess the sound.” It turned out that a few months earlier, Emily had started being afraid of having her hair washed because shampoo had once gotten into her eyes. Every bath had become stressful. My father didn’t want that fear to get worse. So he invented a game. Emily would close her eyes, and Dad would make sounds using different bath toys—the rubber duck, a little cup, a water bottle. While she tried to guess which toy was making the sound, he carefully rinsed the shampoo from her hair. Every time she guessed correctly, she earned one “star.” After ten stars, Grandpa urm took her out for ice cream. I stood in the doorway, feeling tears fill my eyes. Dad looked at me. He understood immediately. “You were scared, weren’t you?” I couldn’t lie. “Yes.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You did the right thing by checking.” I looked at him in surprise. He continued, “A mother should always make sure her child is safe. I should have explained our game to you sooner.” Emily opened her eyes. “Mom, I told you Grandpa urm wasn’t doing anything bad.” I walked over and kissed her forehead. That evening, when Dad was getting ready to leave, he stopped by the door and said quietly, “By the way, this game isn’t new.” “What do you mean?” He smiled. “You were afraid of having your hair washed too. When you were five, I played the same game with you.” I froze. Then suddenly, I remembered. Closed eyes.
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