I unfolded the first page with trembling hands. “Dear Helen,” it began. “Our Rosie was born on the day written above, and I have kept one thing from you since the night we lost her. I was afraid the truth would break you, and then I was afraid it would break us.” My breath caught. The young man sat quietly across from me.

Beneath the letter lay a tiny knitted hat and a folded card in a stranger’s handwriting. I read the card twice before it made sense. It was from a hospital chaplain, who had stayed with Rosie through her last hour while we were sent out of the room. The final line of Frederick’s letter read, “He wrote to us, Helen, and I never answered.”