I was in a horrific accident and left unconscious. The doctors called my parents—they said…

My name is Rebecca Mitchell, I’m 28 years old, and last year I died. Well, technically. The doctors told my parents I wouldn’t survive the night.

Their response? She’s not our real daughter. We owe her nothing. Then they left me to die alone.

A week later, they showed up at my grandmother’s house, ready to claim the inheritance she left me. But my bed was empty, just a letter waiting. And when they read it, their lives fell apart.

I grew up in a quaint suburb of Boston, in a white colonial with blue shutters and a perfectly manicured lawn.

From the outside, we were the quintessential American family. Mother, father, two daughters. My childhood photos show birthday parties with matching decorations, Christmas mornings with piles of presents, family vacations to Disney World.

But photos can lie. My first memory of feeling different was at age five. My sister Allison had knocked over a vase while running through the living room.

When my mother came rushing in, I was already picking up the pieces. What happened here, she demanded. I did it, I said automatically, not even thinking about it.

Later, I overheard my mother on the phone. Rebecca’s always been so eager to please. Not like Allison.

Allison has spirit. Spirit. That was the word my parents used when Allison threw tantrums in stores, when she refused to eat her vegetables, when she talked back.

When I did my homework without being asked, it was because I was dutiful. When Allison finally did hers, she was brilliant. The differences were subtle at first.

Allison got the bigger bedroom. Allison got to choose restaurants on family night. Allison’s artwork covered the refrigerator, while mine was neatly filed away in a drawer.

Your sister needs more encouragement, my father explained when I asked why my straight A’s didn’t earn the same celebration as Allison’s B minus. You’re naturally good at school. I was 12 when I finally learned why.

It was past midnight, and I’d gotten up for a glass of water. My parents were arguing in the kitchen, voices carrying up the stairs. You’ve always favored Allison, my mother hissed.

It’s like you’re trying to make up for Rebecca not being yours. She’s not yours either, Margaret, my father shot back. We agreed when we took her that we’d never treat her differently.

The glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the hardwood floor. The arguing stopped. I ran back to my room, heart pounding and pretended to be asleep when my mother checked on me.

Adopted. The word explained everything and nothing at the same time. Why my hair was dark when everyone else’s was blonde.

Why I had green eyes when they all had blue. Why no matter how hard I tried, I never quite belonged. The next morning at breakfast, I waited for them to tell me, to explain, to reassure me that I was loved just the same.

They said nothing. So I did. I heard you last night, I said, my voice small but steady.

I know I’m adopted. My father’s newspaper lowered slightly. My mother paused while pouring coffee.

Then she smiled that tight smile that never reached her eyes. Don’t be ridiculous, Rebecca. You must have been dreaming.

And that was it. No confirmation. No denial that felt like truth…