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…

So I wandered the aisles, picking up things I didn’t need. Chapstick. A magazine with spring organizing tips on the cover.

A bag of cough drops. Normal things for a normal person living a normal life. If someone had told me that, in 20 minutes, everything I believed about myself would crumble, I would have laughed.

I was Jessica Thompson. I had baby pictures on my parents’ mantle starting at age three. I had a birth certificate, a social security number, a history.

But histories, I was about to learn, can be rewritten. And sometimes the most ordinary moments are just the calm before everything changes. The pharmacy line moved slowly.

I shifted my weight from foot to foot, trying to ignore the pressure in my sinuses. The woman in front of me was buying what looked like half the gardening section. Gloves, plant food, and one of those little hand shovels.

She had gray hair pulled back in a neat bun and wore a cardigan that reminded me of something my mom would own. When she turned around to leave, our eyes met. The change in her expression was instant and terrifying.

Her face went from pleasant distraction to complete shock, the color draining away like someone had pulled a plug. Her mouth opened slightly, and the bag of gardening supplies slipped from her hand. Oh my God, she whispered.

I bent down to help her pick up the scattered items. Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? She grabbed my wrist as I handed her the gloves. Her grip was stronger than I expected.

You look just like my sister. I straightened up, gently pulling my hand back. People say I have one of those faces.

No. She shook her head violently. No, you don’t understand.

It’s not just a resemblance. It’s everything. The way you tilt your head, your nose, your eyes, even that scar.

Her finger pointed to the small mark above my right eyebrow. I touched it reflexively, the way I always did when someone mentioned it. I got this falling off my bike.

When you were seven, she said. It wasn’t a question. How could you possibly know that? Because Rachel got that scar when she was seven, two weeks before she disappeared.

Her voice cracked on the last word. She was trying to ride without training wheels, hit a rock, and went over the handlebars. Three stitches at St. Mary’s Hospital.

The pharmacy suddenly felt too warm. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. I think you’re confused.

My name is Jessica. What’s your full name? She leaned forward, her eyes searching mine with desperate intensity. Jessica Thompson.

The words came out automatically. Then I added, without thinking, Jessica Rachel Thompson. The woman made a sound like she’d been punched.

Her purse hit the floor. Rachel. Your middle name is Rachel.

It’s a common name, I said, but my voice sounded strange to my own ears. How old are you? 32. Born in 1993? I nodded, unable to speak.

Rachel would be 32. Born May 15, 1993. Tears were streaming down her face now.

She had green eyes with gold flecks, just like yours. She was left-handed. Are you left-handed? I looked down at my left hand, still clutching my prescription paper.

Lots of people are left-handed. She had a birthmark on her left shoulder shaped like a crescent moon. My mother had the same one…