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…

It runs in our family. The prescription paper crumpled in my fist. I did have that birthmark.

I’d always thought it was unique, special. My college boyfriend used to trace it with his finger. But how could this stranger know about it? I need to show you something.

The woman fumbled in her purse, pulling out a worn leather wallet. From inside, she extracted a photograph, holding it with shaking hands. This is Rachel.

This was taken three days before she went missing, I looked at the photo and felt the world tilt. A little girl grinned at the camera, missing her two front teeth. She wore a pink bicycle helmet and matching knee pads.

Behind her was a red bike with white streamers on the handlebars. But it was her face that made me grab the pharmacy counter for support. It was my face.

Not similar, not resembling. It was exactly my face from the photos on my parents’ mantle. The earliest photo they had of me was from my third birthday, they said.

Everything before that was lost in a house fire. She was playing in our backyard, the woman continued, her voice hollow. In Denver, I went inside to answer the phone.

It was my mother calling about Sunday dinner. I was only gone five minutes. When I came back, the gate was open and Rachel was gone.

We searched for hours, days, years. I’m not her, I said, but the words felt like a lie. I’m from Portland.

My parents are Susan and Michael Thompson. I’ve always been Jessica. Then how do you explain this? She pulled out another photo.

This is what the age progression specialist said Rachel would look like at 30. I stared at the computer-generated image. It could have been my driver’s license photo.

What was her last name? I heard myself ask. Anderson, Rachel Marie Anderson. I’m Carol Anderson.

I’m your sister. That’s when the antibiotics slipped from my hand. The bottle breaking open on impact, pills scattering across the floor like tiny white secrets I could no longer keep contained.

I ran out of the pharmacy like the building was on fire. The automatic doors couldn’t open fast enough. I burst through them into the rain, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

My car was right there, just 20 feet away, but it felt like miles. My hands shook so badly, I dropped my keys twice before managing to unlock the door. Inside the car, I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

The rain hammered against the windshield, creating a wall of water between me and the world. I couldn’t stop seeing that photo, that little girl with my face, Rachel Marie Anderson. The name echoed in my head like a song I couldn’t remember learning.

I drove home on autopilot, ran up the two flights to my apartment, and slammed the door behind me. My reflection in the hallway mirror stopped me cold. I stared at my face, searching for proof that I was who I’d always believed I was.

But all I saw were questions. I went straight to the bookshelf where my parents kept our family photo albums when I was growing up. I had copies of some of them.

My hands trembled as I pulled out the oldest one, labeled, Jessica’s Early Years in My Mom’s Neat Handwriting. The first photo showed me at my third birthday party. Chocolate cake smeared across my face, a pointed party hat sliding off my head.

I flipped the page. Me at Christmas, maybe three and a half, hugging a stuffed elephant. Another page.

First day of preschool, age four, wearing a Minnie Mouse backpack. I flipped backward. Nothing.

No baby pictures, no toddler photos, no first steps or first words or first anything. My life, according to these albums, began at age three. I grabbed my phone and called my mom.

She answered on the second ring. Hi, sweetie. Did you get your prescription filled? Mom, I need to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth.

Jessica, what’s wrong? You sound upset. Why don’t I have any baby pictures? The silence stretched too long. I could hear her breathing, quick and shallow.

We’ve told you this before. The house fire when you were three. We lost everything…