“What does that mean?”
“You had a sister. A twin sister.”
I actually laughed. It was an ugly, startled sound.
“No. I would know that.”
“I know what I’ve let you believe.”
“Fifty-five years, Mom. I’m 55.”
She nodded and began crying again.
My father had died 14 years earlier. I thought of every birthday he’d celebrated with me, every story he’d told about the day I was born.
He’d always said I arrived screaming and refused to stop until someone put me in my mother’s arms.
Not once had he mentioned another child.
“Did Dad know?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mom said.
She unfolded one of the blankets and ran a finger over the silver star.
“I made two like these before you were born,” she said. “I had a black wool shawl from my mother. It was the nicest fabric I owned. I cut it up and stitched a star onto each corner, so I’d always know which blanket belonged to which girl.”
