I kept the stuffed rabbit.
It had been chosen for Liora.
A month later, Elio and I held a small memorial for his sister. We buried the flowered hospital cap beneath a young maple tree and placed the rabbit beside her name for one afternoon before bringing it home.
Elio asked whether Celia had ever really been his sister.
I thought carefully before answering.
“She was a baby who lived in our home,” I said. “You wanted to protect her even when you knew something was wrong. That matters.”
He took my hand.
“I still hope she’s okay.”
“So do I.”
For a long time, I blamed myself for not believing him immediately.
But children do not always explain the truth in a way adults find convenient. Sometimes they whisper it from a dark hallway. Sometimes they repeat the same impossible sentence until someone finally listens.
Elio had recognized his sister by a tiny flowered cap and the feeling of her hand around his finger.
