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…

What house fire? Where were we living? In California, before we moved to Portland. Where in California? Another pause. Sacramento.

What was our address? Jessica, why are you asking about this now? Just answer me, mom, please. What was our address? I don’t remember the exact address. It was so long ago.

You remember everything. You still have the receipt from my first day of kindergarten shoes. How can you not remember where we lived? Jessica, you’re scaring me.

What’s going on? I hung up. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone. I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, pulling my shirt off my left shoulder.

There it was. The birthmark I’d never really thought about, shaped exactly like a crescent moon. I called Ashley.

Can you come over? Right now? Jess, I’m at work. What’s wrong? Please, I need you. 20 minutes later, she was at my door, still in her dental hygienist scrubs.

I told her everything. The words tumbling out in a rush. The woman at the pharmacy.

The photos. The missing sister named Rachel. The birthmark.

Ashley listened, her face growing more concerned with each detail. Okay, let’s think about this logically. It could be a coincidence.

Rachel is a common name. Lots of kids fall off bikes. And the birthmark? And the fact that I have no photos before age three? And that my parents can’t remember where we lived? Maybe they’re telling the truth about the fire.

Then why can’t they remember the address? Why have they never taken me back to California to show me where we used to live? Why don’t I know any family friends from before Portland? Ashley bit her lip. What do you wanna do? I need to know the truth. I pulled out my laptop and opened Facebook.

Help me find her. It didn’t take long. Carol Anderson, retired teacher, lives in Portland.

The profile picture showed her with what looked like grandchildren. Her cover photo was a garden in full bloom. That’s her, I whispered.

That’s the woman from the pharmacy. I clicked on her photo scrolling through years of family gatherings, holidays, ordinary life. Then I found it.

An album titled, Never Forgotten. My finger hovered over it for a moment before clicking. The first photo knocked the breath out of me.

A family portrait. A younger Carol, maybe early 30s, with a man who must have been her husband, a girl about 10 years old, and a younger girl, about seven, with a gap-toothed grin. The caption read, the last photo of our complete family.

Rachel went missing two weeks later. We never stopped hoping. I stared at that little girl’s face, at my face.

Oh my God, Ashley whispered. Jess, you need to meet with her. I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

With trembling fingers, I typed out a message. Mrs. Anderson, this is Jessica from the pharmacy. I think we need to talk.

Three days later, I sat across from Carol Anderson at a small cafe on Hawthorne. She’d responded to my message within minutes, suggesting we meet somewhere public, but quiet. I’d barely slept since the pharmacy encounter, spending my nights staring at photos and searching for memories that didn’t exist.

Carol arrived carrying a large tote bag and a manila folder. Her eyes were red-rimmed, like she’d been crying for days. Maybe she had been.

She sat down carefully, as if sudden movements might scare me away. Thank you for meeting me, she said softly. I know this must be overwhelming.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. She pulled out the manila folder first, spreading its contents across the small table. Newspaper clippings, missing person flyers, police reports, an entire life documented in desperate searches.

This was in the Denver Post, she said, pointing to a headline, local girl vanishes from backyard. The article was dated June 3rd, 1998. We’d just moved to that house.

New neighborhood. I thought the fence was secure. She showed me another clipping…