At first I kept asking questions.
“Where did they find her?”
“What happened?”
“Did it hurt?”
My mother’s face would close off.
“Stop it, Dorothy,” she’d say. “You’re hurting me.”
I wanted to shout, “I’m hurting too.”
Instead, I learned to stay quiet. Talking about Ella felt like setting off an explosion in the middle of the room. So I swallowed my questions and carried them alone.
That’s how I grew up.
From the outside, I looked fine. I did my homework, had friends, stayed out of trouble. Inside, though, there was this constant buzzing emptiness where my sister should have been.
When I was sixteen, I tried to break the silence.
I walked into the police station by myself, my palms sweating.
The officer behind the desk looked up. “Can I help you?”
“My twin sister disappeared when we were five,” I said. “Her name was Ella. I want to see the case file.”
He frowned. “How old are you, sweetheart?”
“Sixteen.”
He sighed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Those records aren’t public. Your parents would have to request them.”
“They won’t even say her name,” I said. “They told me she died. That’s it.”
His face softened.
“Then maybe you should let them handle it,” he said. “Some things are too painful to dig up.”
I left feeling foolish—and even more alone.
In my twenties, I tried one last time with my mother.
We were sitting on her bed folding laundry. I said quietly, “Mom, please. I need to know what really happened to Ella.”
