I went through every album again, carefully, page by page. There were countless pictures of me, but not a single other photo of that girl. No Lily. Just one photograph, hidden, and a name that should have meant something but didn’t.
My mind raced through possibilities: a neighbor’s child, a distant cousin, a family friend. But none of it made sense.
That girl didn’t just resemble me. She was a part of my childhood I had no memory of.
The thought I kept pushing away finally surfaced: What if she was my sister?
And if she was, how could I not remember her at all?
Turning to My Aunt
It had always been just my mom and me. No extra bed, no second set of toys, no stories about “when you girls were little.”
That’s when I thought of my mother’s sister, Margaret. She lived less than two hours away. We hadn’t spoken in years. My mother and Margaret had never gotten along, and after my father died, whatever fragile connection they had disappeared completely.
But suddenly, Margaret mattered.
She was the only person left who might know something.
I didn’t call her. I was afraid she’d make excuses—busy, tired, not a good time. I didn’t want excuses. I wanted the truth.
Leave a Comment