Inside were two newborn hats.

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Two hospital bracelets.

And eighteen years of letters addressed to a daughter who had no idea she’d once had a twin sister.

Her name was Rosie.

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She was born eleven minutes after Hannah.

Hannah arrived screaming.

Rosie barely made a sound.

“Already letting her sister do all the talking,” David joked.

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I laughed.

We were twenty-seven years old, exhausted and happier than I knew a person could be.

Rosie weighed six pounds, one ounce.

She had dark hair and a tiny crease beside her left eye that appeared whenever she cried.

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Hannah was louder.

Hungrier.

More demanding.

I used to joke that Hannah cried enough for both of them.

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Nine days after we brought our daughters home, Rosie died.

There was no warning.

No long illness.

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No diagnosis that gave us time to prepare.

One moment, I was the mother of twin girls.

Then I wasn’t.

The official explanation was SIDS.

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Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

People told me nobody had done anything wrong.

They meant it as comfort.

It wasn’t.

When something unimaginable happens to your child, sometimes you desperately want someone to blame.