“Why?”
Before she could answer, my father cut in sharply.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Dorothy, go to your room.”
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,” my mother said softly.
“Where?” I asked.
“In the forest,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” I asked.
My father rubbed his forehead.
“She died,” he said flatly. “Ella died. That’s all you need to know.”
But I never saw 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 was no longer spoken in our home.
At first, I kept asking questions.
“Where did they find her?”
“What happened?”
“Did it hurt?”
Each time, my mother’s face would close off.
“Stop it, Dorothy,” she would say. “You’re hurting me.”
