I was standing in line at the pharmacy when a woman said, «you look just like my sister.» I smiled politely. She added, «she went missing 25 years ago.» I laughed nervously and said, «what was her name?» She stared at me and said, «your name.» The bottle dropped from my hand…

The woman stepped closer, and I could see every line on her face, every gray hair that had probably turned that color from years of worry. You have her eyes, she said, green with little gold flecks. And that scar above your eyebrow.

My hand moved involuntarily to touch the small scar above my right eye. I’d gotten it falling off my bike when I was seven. My dad had rushed me to the emergency room.

Mom held my hand while they put in three tiny stitches. I remembered it perfectly. Or did I? How old are you? The woman asked.

Thirty-two. She’d be thirty-two. Her voice cracked on the words.

She had a birthmark on her left shoulder, shaped like a crescent moon. The pharmacy suddenly felt too small, too bright. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry wasps.

I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, drowning out the soft music playing from the speakers. An elderly man behind us cleared his throat impatiently, but we didn’t move. I’m sorry, I managed to say.

I think you have me confused with someone else. But even as I said it, something cold was creeping up my spine. Because I do have a birthmark on my left shoulder, shaped exactly like a crescent moon.

I’d always thought it was cute, unique. My boyfriend in college used to kiss it and call it my lucky charm. The woman reached into her purse with trembling hands and pulled out a worn photograph.

This was her. This was Rachel. I looked at the photo and felt the ground shift beneath my feet.

A little girl stared back at me, grinning with two missing front teeth. She had my nose, my chin, those same green eyes with gold flecks. She was wearing a pink dress I swear I remembered owning.

I have to go, I said backing away. I’m sorry, I have to go. I turned and ran out of the pharmacy, leaving my prescription, my dignity, and possibly my entire identity scattered on that floor.

The rain hit my face like cold needles, but I didn’t stop running until I reached my car. I sat there, engine off, rain pounding on the windshield, trying to make sense of what just happened. But here’s the thing about the truth.

It doesn’t care if you’re ready for it. It doesn’t wait for the perfect moment. Sometimes it finds you on a random Tuesday when you’re sick and vulnerable, standing in line at a pharmacy.

Sometimes it looks like a stranger’s tears and sounds like your own name spoken by someone who’s been searching for you for 25 years. My name is Jessica Thompson. At least I thought it was.

But that Tuesday afternoon, I started to wonder if my name might actually be Rachel Marie Anderson and if the life I’d been living was built on someone else’s tragedy. That morning had started like any other Tuesday in my life. I woke up at 7.30 in my Pearl District apartment, the one with the exposed brick walls and the window that never quite closed all the way.

Rain was pattering against the glass, which was nothing new for Portland in March. My sinuses felt like someone had stuffed them with cotton balls soaked in cement. I rolled over and grabbed my phone, squinting at the bright screen.

Three texts from Ashley asking if we were still on for Thursday coffee, one from my mom with a gif of a dancing cat and the words, happy Tuesday, sweetie, and two missed calls from my client who wanted to know if I could make the logo more purple, but less purple. My name is Jessica Thompson and I design logos for small businesses. Not the most glamorous job, but it pays the bills and lets me work from home in my pajamas.

I’d been doing it for five years, ever since I graduated from Portland State with a degree in graphic design and a mountain of student loans. I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen. My apartment was small but cozy, decorated with thrift store finds and plants I somehow hadn’t killed yet.

The walls were covered with my own artwork and photos from family vacations. There was one of me and my parents at Crater Lake when I was 15, all of us squinting in the bright sun. Another from my college graduation, my dad looking proud in his only suit, my mom crying happy tears, Susan and Michael Thompson, the best parents anyone could ask for.

Mom worked as a pediatric nurse at OHSU, coming home with stories about brave kids and grateful parents. Dad was an accountant at a firm downtown, the kind of guy who got excited about tax season and actually enjoyed balancing checkbooks. They’d been married 35 years and still held hands when they walked…