For 18 years, I had raised my daughters without returning to the beach where our family began. I thought I had hidden the worst parts of my grief from them, but on their birthday, they showed me they had been carrying more than I ever knew.
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The day my daughters turned 18, they placed two faded beach towels on my kitchen table and asked me not to hate them.
I knew those towels better than I knew my own scars. Eighteen years earlier, I had found my twin baby girls wrapped in those towels inside a beach changing cubicle.
Now, they looked like they had broken something they couldn't fix.
I had found my twin baby girls wrapped in those towels.
"Dad," Emily said, taking my hand.
"We owe you the truth," Grace said, wiping her cheek.
"What truth?"
They looked at each other. Then Grace pushed the white towel toward me.
"Open it."
My hands shook before I even touched the fabric.
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