My girls.
Plural.
I looked at Emily.
Then at Grace.
“How long have you known?” My voice didn’t sound like mine.
Emily wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“Since last summer.
We were looking for Christmas decorations in the attic.
The box was behind the winter coats.”
“I told you never to open that box.”
“I know.”
“Why did you?”
Grace answered this one.
“Because you cried in your sleep, Dad.
You still do.
We heard you one night and we couldn’t pretend anymore.”
I set the letter down on the table.
My fingers left damp prints on the paper.
“Read the rest,” Emily said.
“Please.
Out loud.”
I picked it up again.
“To whoever finds my girls — my name is Naomi.
I am thirty-six weeks pregnant with twin girls.
The doctors say there is a complication.
They say I might not make it.
I am writing this in case I don’t.”
I stopped.
“Keep going,” Grace said.
“If you are reading this, someone brought my daughters to you.
Someone I trusted with my life.
Please love them.
Please don’t let them grow up feeling unwanted.
Please tell them their mother wanted them more than anything in this world.”
Emily was gripping the edge of the table.
“And if the person who finds them is the man I love — if by some miracle it is you — then please know I am sorry.
I should have told you there were two.
I wanted it to be a surprise.
I was going to tell you on a Sunday.
I had little blue sailboat towels picked out for them.
I thought it would be funny.
You always said one baby would change our life.
I wanted to see your face when you realized it was two.”
The kitchen went silent.
Grace was holding Emily’s hand so tightly their knuckles were white.
“I love you.
I love them.
If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone.
But they’re still here.
Please find them.
Please raise them.
Please don’t let my girls grow up alone.”
I couldn’t read anymore.
“You knew,” I said.
Not a question.
Emily nodded.
“We found the letter.
We found the photo.
We found a hospital bracelet in the box with a name on it.”
“What name?”
