I remember Grandma crying at the sink, whispering, “I’m so sorry,” over and over.
“Dorothy, go to your room.”
I asked my mother once, “When is Ella coming home?”
She was drying dishes. Her hands stopped.
“She’s not,” she said.
“Why?”
My father cut in.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Dorothy, go to your room.”
My father rubbed his forehead.
Later, they sat me down in the living room. My father stared at the floor. My mother stared at her hands.
“The police found Ella,” she said.
“Where?”
“In the forest,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” I asked.
My father rubbed his forehead.
One day I had a twin.
“She died,” he said. “Ella died. That’s all you need to know.”
I didn’t see a body. I don’t remember a funeral. No small casket. No grave I was taken to.
One day, I had a twin.
The next, I was alone.
Her toys disappeared. Our matching clothes vanished. Her name stopped existing in our house.
“Did it hurt?”
At first, I kept asking.
“Where did they find her?”
“What happened?”
“Did it hurt?”
My mother’s face shut down.
“Stop it, Dorothy,” she’d say. “You’re hurting me.”
I grew up like that.
I wanted to scream, “I’m hurting too.”
CONTINUE READING…>>
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