Chapter Twelve
I’ve never been a linguist, never been one for words, but the first letter I ever wrote Robin was three months after her disappearance.
I started them when I was still under the impression we’d get the phone call from the police that they’d found her, the call that never came.
The call that still haunts me every time my phone rings today.
I started writing things down, wanting to focus solely on the positive when there was so much heaviness in our lives.
I wanted a safe space to celebrate the things that were continuing, Skyla’s milestones, and possibly Robin’s too.
Because I felt I couldn’t smile, couldn’t cheer Skyla on for the things she achieved like the first time she counted to ten or recited the alphabet by herself.
It was a strange world, a contradicting one.
On one hand, I’d be beaming on the inside, proud of Skyla in all of the ways she was growing, learning, becoming, and on the other, I was terrified someone would take that pride, that smile on my face, and twist it into something it wasn’t.
And so I bottled up all of my laughter, my smiles, my happy tears that mixed in with the sad, and I poured them into ink and paper.
Letters I hoped would one day be in Robin’s hands, proving to her that I never once forgot about her, gave up on her, even when I kept on going for Skyla’s sake.
And she is really the only reason I kept going.
Without her, I don’t know if I could have.
Over the next couple of days, with Raven haunting our corridors, I’m drawn back to my box containing all of my memories of Robin. A box no one knows about but me. And for the first time since I started writing those letters, I start reading through them, one by one.
Dear Ro,
There’s been a breakthrough! Teeth-brushing suddenly isn’t the total massacre you and Skyla always used to think it was.
I’m smiling as I write this, vividly remembering so many nights having to pin you and your sister down, holding your heads in place while James scrubbed your teeth.
We tried everything, watching all the award-winning YouTubers who sing songs for toddlers about brushing teeth, bribing you with stickers, buying you a toothbrush so you could brush your dolls teeth at the same time .
. . but tonight, Skyla wanted to brush her teeth herself.
She positioned five of her dolls around the sink so they could ‘watch’ her while she looked in the mirror above the sink and scrubbed away.
She was so proud of herself, stood up on the steps of her potty, kept spitting every few seconds so I don’t know how much brushing actually went on but it made me so happy.
The sort of happy that someone who isn’t a parent will never understand.
‘Your kid brushed their teeth, so what?’ There are so many people I can imagine saying that, who wouldn’t care about such a milestone. If only they knew the struggle.
You hated brushing your teeth more than you hated broccoli and peas, more than you hated being trapped behind the baby gate or having your nappy changed, more than you hated sharing toys with your sister!
Why am I writing in the past tense? I catch myself talking like that sometimes to James, and I hate it.
Speaking like you’re . . . dead. You aren’t.
You are so alive, in every way. I’m waiting for you baby.
I’ll be here when you come home. I hope somewhere out there, someone is brushing your teeth. Even if you do still hate it.
All my love,
Mummy x
Dear Ro,
I still find myself taking out two sets of clothes every morning.
Two pairs of shoes. Today there was an independence in Skyla I haven’t seen before.
She looked at the outfit I’d selected and decided she wanted to choose something herself.
She went about rifling through the cupboard drawers, pulling trousers and T-shirts, dresses and cardigans out in a flurry of excitement.
She ended up demanding I dress her in a Disney Princess top with a tutu, colourful stripey tights and a unicorn horn Alice band.
She looked ridiculous but couldn’t have been more delighted.
Paraded around the bedroom, modelling for me.
I laughed. It escaped before I could stop it, and even though it was alone in a private space with just your sister, there was such guilt.
Skyla, of course, was thrilled. It made her strut around more, tossing her head full of curls back as she belly-laughed.
It was infectious, and I know she wanted to make me laugh more and more.
She was putting on a show. I pulled her to me and kissed her cheek, and it felt good.
Good to smile and laugh again in a safe space where no one else could see it, just enjoying watching Skyla be.
Before we left the room, I noticed she’d laid out the exact same outfit for you.
Disney Princess top, tutu, stripey tights and the unicorn horn Alice band.
It stayed in a neat pile on the floor for the day, and before bed I replaced the pile with your set of pyjamas, laying your bunny on top. I do that every day, Ro.
God, I miss you. So, so much.
Love always,
Mummy x
It’s a small, brief window into the happiness that was still there even when I felt I wasn’t allowed to show it. These pages were my sanctuary. I hold them close, as though I could squeeze out the ink from the page, draw out those happy memories into the palm of my hands.
Life with a toddler was filled with so much joy. Of course there were stresses, moments where we snapped, times we’d raised our voices and caused Skyla big fat tears I wish we never had. But it’s all part of parenthood.
Our parenthood, Skyla’s toddler years, were stolen from us.
While she was still there physically, we were so wrapped up, consumed in the chaos that was Robin’s disappearance, that we let so much slip by unnoticed.
Every so often though, I’d catch something.
Hear a sentence she’d strung together, using words I didn’t know she knew.
I’d marvel at how smart she was. Wondering where it came from, where she’d picked it up.
Through time the letters became more maudlin, more melancholy as I grew more despondent, my heart heavy in the knowledge that Robin really may never be found. While I never lost hope, my fear definitely increased.
Dear Ro,
Something James seems to find entertaining is asking Skyla who her best friend is.
I think he’s desperate to hear his name from her mouth first, but it never is.
It’s always yours. ‘Robin,’ said in accentuated, rounded words.
I wonder where she thinks you are. She has no real concept of time, yet.
Has no idea how long you’ve been gone. Not the way I do.
Each tick of the clock is another score through my heart, another moment without you.
I love you, Robin. Please come home to us. We need you.
Mummy x
Dear Ro,
Today I was making our morning coffee. I forgot for just one wonderful, blissful moment that you weren’t here, because it felt like you were right there with me as the kettle rumbled.
Sitting up on the kitchen counter in your pyjamas, kicking your little legs about as I pulled down the mugs.
I tried to pass the teaspoon to you so you could stir in the milk.
You always loved making coffee with me in the mornings.
So much more of a morning person than your sister, who would take a lot longer to rise.
Who would eventually come bleary eyed into the brightness of the kitchen in Daddy’s arms. I miss you so much, my little morning person.
Love you forever,
Mummy
Dear Ro,
Skyla’s started getting into arts and crafts.
We took her to Hobby Craft today and got some paints and brushes.
She painted a picture of her family. It was all just messy blobs of paint, really.
Black swirling into blue, yellow and purple acrylic.
But when I asked her what she’d painted, she’d jabbed her finger to the paper and said, ’Mummy, Daddy, Skyla and Robin. ’
I’ve put the painting on the fridge. It symbolises our family, the one Skyla still remembers. But for how much longer? When will that change? I’m not naive enough to think it never will, so I want to hold on to the things that keep us as a family of four for as long as I can.
Please come home soon. You complete us. I don’t want Skyla to ever forget you. I never will.
Love you for ever,
Mummy
I didn’t necessarily know if twins could really forget each other.
Scientifically speaking, I guess so, but there were times, so many times, when Skyla seemed distressed for no reason.
She’d just start crying while in the middle of eating her Kellogg’s Rice Crispies or while at soft play, and when we’d ask what was wrong, she’d blink up at us, confused.
She didn’t know. It was like she was in some sort of a trance.
Was it all down to trauma? Or was it more than that, some sort of twin telepathy James and I would never understand?
Was Robin out there somewhere, being hurt?
Neglected? Was she crying, somehow sharing this strange intuitive connection with Skyla?
I became fascinated by it. Spent hours reading articles and Reddit posts about twins, but the only thing that seemed truly therapeutic in those days was writing letters to Robin.
Nothing else helped to comfort me, to ease my anxiety.
I try to write at least one letter once a month, and as I fan the stack of envelopes out in front of me, I do some quick maths.
There must be close to two hundred letters here.
Too many to read through in one sitting.
Each one as special as the next. I clutch them tightly to my chest, until the sound of Raven’s voice floating down the hallway distracts me from my memories.
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