My 12-year-old daughter suddenly died. I was still grieving a month later, when I found her school backpack in her sister’s room, and I was utterly floored by what I found inside.
My twelve-year-old twin daughters, Emma and Alice, had always been close in the way only twins seemed to understand.
They argued over clothes, snacks, bathroom time, and who got the front seat, but five minutes later they would be laughing over some joke nobody else understood.
When school started again in September, I expected complaints.
But by the end of August, they were clearly ready to come home.
Instead, they were excited.
They had spent the whole summer with my mom, who lives near the ocean, and they loved being there. Grandma spoiled them, let them stay up too late, and somehow convinced them that helping pull weeds counted as “gardening adventures.”
But by the end of August, they were clearly ready to come home.
“I miss my friends,” Alice admitted.
The first few school days went smoothly.
Emma rolled her eyes.
“You mean you miss Olivia because she always brings extra treats in her lunchbox.”
“Same thing.”
Emma laughed.
The first few school days went smoothly.
After two months without them, it was nice having my house noisy again.
They came home talking about new teachers, lunchroom drama, and which classmates had changed the most over the summer.
I remember feeling relieved.
After two months without them, it was nice having my house noisy again.
Then, one afternoon, my phone rang.
I was at work.
“Is this Emma and Alice’s mom?”
The caller ID showed the school.
I answered casually.
“Hello?”
A woman spoke.
“Is this Emma and Alice’s mom?”
She sounded like she was trying not to cry.
“Yes?”
“This is Ms. Harris. I’m Emma and Alice’s math teacher.”
Something in her voice made me sit up straighter.
She sounded like she was trying not to cry.
“What’s wrong?”
“Emma became very sick during class.”
I stood up so fast my chair rolled backward.
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean, sick?”
“She said she felt dizzy. Then she collapsed.”
I stood up so fast my chair rolled backward.
“Where is she?”
I barely remembered the drive.
“We called an ambulance. They’ve taken her to St. Mary’s.”
“I’m coming.”
“I’m so sorry.”
I barely remembered the drive.
I yelled at every red light that got in my way.
Alice was already there with the school counselor.
At the hospital, someone directed me toward the emergency department.
Alice was already there with the school counselor.
She ran into my arms.
“Mom.”
“Where’s Emma?”
Alice shook her head.
Nobody told me anything useful.
“I don’t know.”
Her face was white.
I kept asking nurses for updates.
Nobody told me anything useful.
Everything felt like a blur and as if time was moving through molasses at once.
Then a doctor came through the doors.
I knew before he spoke.
He looked tired.
And sad.
I knew before he spoke.
“I’m sorry.”
I stopped breathing.
“Her heart stopped suddenly. We attempted resuscitation, but we weren’t able to bring her back. Do you have a history of heart defects in your family?”
“No. She’s only twelve.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“No. She’s only twelve.”
He didn’t answer.
After that, everything passed me by in disconnected pieces.
I remember my knees hitting the floor.
After that, everything passed me by in disconnected pieces.
Forms.
Phone calls.
People bringing food.
Teachers sending flowers.
For a few seconds after waking up, I would forget.
My mom arriving and crying so hard she could barely speak.
The funeral.
Then silence.
The worst part was mornings.
For a few seconds after waking up, I would forget.
Alice was the only reason I got out of bed.
Of course, when I remembered, it hit me like a freight train.
Alice was the only reason I got out of bed.
She became quieter too.
She stopped sitting in Emma’s usual seat at breakfast.
She stopped watching the shows they liked together.
A week after the funeral, the school called.
She slept with her bedroom light on.
I tried talking to her.
Sometimes she answered.
Sometimes she just shrugged.
A week after the funeral, the school called.
They wanted me to collect Emma’s belongings.
Finally, Alice came with me.
I couldn’t face it, so I waited another few days.
Finally, Alice came with me.
A secretary gave us a box.
There were textbooks, notebooks, a sweatshirt, two pens, and Emma’s water bottle.
But no backpack.
“Where’s her bag?” I asked.
“We thought you had it.”
The secretary frowned.
“We thought you had it.”
“No.”
She checked with the classroom teacher, the nurse’s office, and lost and found.
Nothing.
I didn’t have the energy to keep searching.
Alice stood beside me with her arms crossed.
“Maybe it got lost when the ambulance came.”
“Maybe.”
I didn’t have the energy to keep searching.
A missing backpack seemed unimportant compared with everything else.
A month passed.
Most days, everything felt mechanical.
I was still functioning badly.
I went back to work.
I made dinner.
I did laundry when we ran out of clean clothes.
But most days, everything felt mechanical.
Then yesterday morning, I decided to clean the house properly.
Eventually, I reached Alice’s room.
I’d walked down the stairs, tripped over a stray sweater, and ended up on the floor.
“This is embarrassing,” I whispered to myself.
So, I started downstairs.
Eventually, I reached Alice’s room.
She was spending the afternoon with my mom, so I stripped her bed and collected dirty clothes.
When I pulled off one pillowcase, it slipped from my hand.
That’s when I noticed something under her bed.
I bent to pick it up.
That’s when I noticed something under her bed.
Black fabric.
I crouched down.
At first, I thought it was one of her school bags.
Then I grabbed the strap.
Her name was still written in silver marker on the front pocket.
My hands froze.
It was Emma’s backpack.
I knew immediately.
Her name was still written in silver marker on the front pocket.
I sat on the floor holding it.
Why was it in Alice’s room?
Inside was a zippered pouch stuffed with folded pieces of paper.
Why had she told me it was lost?
For several minutes, I just stared.
Then I opened it.
Inside was a zippered pouch stuffed with folded pieces of paper.
Dozens.
Some were lined notebook paper.
And on top were some of the angriest words I’d ever read from my daughter.
Why did you have to do that to me? Look how you’ve made me feel!
One was written on the back of a grocery receipt.
I couldn’t believe the resentment.
The only thing that escaped my mouth were, “OH GOD, NO! This can’t be happening! Alice, WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN?!”
For a second, I could only stare. I didn’t even want to touch the notes.
But eventually, my grief and curiosity overcame me, and I dug deeper.
Deeper into the bundle of what I could only imagine as hidden vitriol between my kids.
Every single one started the same way.
Some of the notes were written on sticky notes.
One was written on the back of a grocery receipt.
Every single one had the same note on the front.
To Alice. Or, To Emma.
I unfolded the first with shaking hands.
Stop stealing my socks. I know they’re mine because mine don’t smell weird.
Mom knows you ate the last brownie.
Despite myself, I laughed.
Another said:
Mom knows you ate the last brownie, by the way. I’m not taking the blame again.
Another:
If you tell anyone I cried during that dog movie, I’ll deny it forever.
My chest hurt.
The girls had been writing to each other.
These weren’t the notes I’d imagined.
The girls had been writing to each other, yes, but out of love.
And judging by the dates, they’d been doing it for years.
I kept reading.
Some were stupid.
Some were sweet.
Fine, you can have half my money.
One mentioned a lemonade stand when they were nine.
Fine, you can have half my money. But only because you did build the stand.
I remembered that day.
Emma had sold almost every cup while Alice decorated the signs.
At bedtime, I had heard coins clinking between their rooms.
Then I found an envelope near the bottom.
Another note said:
You didn’t ruin the talent show. You got scared. That’s different. Next year we’re doing something where nobody has to sing.
I remembered that too.
Alice had frozen onstage.
Before any teacher could intervene, Emma had walked out beside her and grabbed her hand.
Then I found an envelope near the bottom.
READ THIS IF YOU’RE STILL MAD AT ME.
Unlike the others, it was sealed.
Across the front, Emma had written:
READ THIS IF YOU’RE STILL MAD AT ME.
I heard the front door open.
“Mom?”
Alice.
Her eyes landed on the backpack.
I stood so quickly the papers scattered.
She appeared in the doorway.
Her eyes landed on the backpack.
Then the envelope.
Her face changed completely.
“No.”
“Don’t open it!”
“Alice—”
“No!”
She rushed toward me.
“Don’t open it!”
“I wasn’t.”
“Give it to me!”
She snatched it.
I held it out.
She snatched it and pressed it against her chest.
Her breathing had become fast.
“Why was Emma’s backpack under your bed?”
Alice looked down.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Because I took it.”
“You told me it was lost.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Her eyes glistened.
“Because I took it.”
I sat on the bed.
“We had a fight.”
“Why would you do that?”
She didn’t answer.
I waited.
Finally, she whispered, “We had a fight.”
“At Grandma’s?”
She nodded.
“What about?”
“It was stupid.”
“Nothing.”
“Alice.”
“It was stupid.”
She wiped her face angrily.
“Emma wanted to come home early. I wanted to stay.”
“Why?”
“She said she missed you. I said she was being a baby.”
“I told her she’d ruin everything.”
I stayed quiet.
Alice continued.
“Then she said I only wanted to stay because Grandma let me do whatever I wanted.”
“What did you say?”
Her face crumpled.
“I told her she’d ruin everything if she came home.”
“We said worse stuff too.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
“We said worse stuff too.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“Okay.”
She looked surprised.
“But you weren’t talking?”
I wasn’t going to force her.
“We came home and acted normal around you,” she said.
“But you weren’t talking?”
“Not really.”
I looked at the pouch of notes.
“Why were all these in Emma’s backpack?”
Alice’s mouth trembled.
“We kept them in a box at Grandma’s.”
“She put them there after we got home.”
“All of them?”
She nodded.
“We kept them in a box at Grandma’s. I saw her packing them into her bag before school started. I thought she was just trying to annoy me.”
I looked at the sealed envelope in Alice’s hands.
Suddenly, it made sense.
“She tried giving it to me.”
“Emma wrote you this.”
Alice nodded.
“She tried giving it to me.”
“When?”
“The morning she died.”
I felt sick.
“She put it beside my cereal.”
Alice stared at the envelope.
“She put it beside my cereal.”
“What did you say?”
Alice began crying.
“I pushed it back.”
I moved closer.
Her voice broke.
I wrapped my arms around her.
“I said, ‘I’ll read it when I feel like it.'”
She covered her face.
“Those were almost the last words I ever said to her.”
I wrapped my arms around her.
She fought me for half a second.
Then collapsed against me.
Alice wouldn’t look at me.
After a while, she whispered, “The counselor brought our bags to the hospital.”
I pulled back.
Alice wouldn’t look at me.
“When we left, I took Emma’s too. I hid it before you noticed.”
That explained the missing backpack.
“Why?”
“I couldn’t leave it there.”
I picked up the letter.
She looked at the envelope.
“And I couldn’t read this.”
I understood.
“And you didn’t want me to find it.”
She nodded.
I picked up the letter.
For one terrible second, part of me wanted to open it.
“Emma wrote it to you.”
Then I handed it back.
“It’s yours.”
Alice stared at me.
“You don’t want to know?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why won’t you open it?”
“Because Emma wrote it to you.”
We spent the afternoon sorting the other notes.
Alice looked down.
“I still can’t.”
“You don’t have to.”
We spent the afternoon sorting the other notes.
Every few pages, one triggered another memory.
The lemonade stand.
The talent show.
She held up three notes.
A Christmas when both girls secretly bought each other the same bracelet.
Then Alice stopped.
“Mom.”
“What?”
She held up three notes.
Each mentioned a tin box.
Don’t forget the tin under Grandma’s porch.
One said:
Don’t forget the tin under Grandma’s porch.
Another:
Add the blue shell.
The third said:
Do NOT tell Mom. She’ll make this weird.
I almost smiled.
That evening, we drove to the coast.
“I have no idea what this means.”
Alice suddenly stood.
“We have to go to Grandma’s. I completely forgot we wanted to do this last time.”
That evening, we drove to the coast.
Mom looked confused when we arrived carrying Emma’s backpack.
The three of us were kneeling beside the porch steps.
Alice asked immediately:
“Do you have a shovel?”
Twenty minutes later, the three of us were kneeling beside the porch steps.
Alice pointed.
“There.”
Under loose soil, we found a plastic-wrapped cookie tin.
Inside were shells.
It was rusty around the edges.
Inside were shells.
Friendship bracelets.
A movie ticket.
A broken dolphin keychain.
Two old photographs.
OPEN WHEN WE’RE OLD.
And another envelope.
Alice picked it up.
On the front, Emma had written:
OPEN WHEN WE’RE OLD.
Alice laughed.
A real laugh.
Most of the letter was jokes.
It startled all three of us.
She opened it.
Most of the letter was jokes.
I bet you’re still stealing my clothes.
I bet Mom still tells the story about us flooding the bathroom.
Then Alice looked a little caught off-guard.
My mom covered her mouth.
She read the next part aloud.
“I know we’ll probably still fight when we’re eighty, but we should live near each other when we’re grown up so our kids can be friends too.”
Alice’s voice failed.
My mom covered her mouth.
I reached for Alice’s hand.
“We were supposed to have all that.”
She looked at the letter for a long time.
“We were supposed to have all that.”
“I know.”
Her hand went to the unopened envelope in her pocket.
She didn’t take it out.
Not yet.
After a while, Alice pulled out Emma’s envelope.
That night, we sat outside near the ocean.
The waves were loud enough that none of us had to talk.
After a while, Alice pulled out Emma’s envelope.
She turned it over once.
Twice.
Then opened it.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Her eyes moved across the page.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she made a strange sound between a laugh and a sob.
“What?” I asked.
She handed me the letter.
Emma had written:
I’m still mad too. But I don’t like when we don’t talk. So whenever you’re done being dramatic, come find me.
“She always knew you well.”
Alice wiped her eyes.
“She called me dramatic.”
I smirked and hugged her.
“She always knew you well.”
Alice gave me such an offended look that, for one second, she looked exactly like herself again.
The next morning, Alice put both letters into the tin. Then she added a folded page of her own.
“It’s for Emma.”
“What did you write?” I asked.
She hugged the tin.
“None of your business.”
“Alice,” I scoffed at the rude remark.
“It’s for Emma.”
So I didn’t ask again.
Then Alice and I walked toward the beach.
We buried the tin beneath Grandma’s porch.
Then Alice and I walked toward the beach.
Halfway there, she reached over and took my hand.
She hadn’t done that voluntarily since she was little.
I didn’t mention it.
Alice had believed one angry sentence was the last thing that mattered between her and her sister.
I just held on.
For weeks, Alice had believed one angry sentence was the last thing that mattered between her and her sister.
But it wasn’t.
There had been twelve years before it.
And now, finally, she had something else to remember.
