For eighteen 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.
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.
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