There’s something else, she said as I sealed the sample. Your parents, Susan and Michael Thompson. I need to know how they got you.
They’re good people, I said defensively. They love me. I’m not saying they don’t.
But Jessica, if you’re Rachel, they’ve had someone else’s child for 25 years. They’ve known you were missing. Your face has been on milk cartons and websites and TV shows.
How did they never see it? I thought about my parents’ reluctance to travel, their vague answers about our life before Portland, the way they’d always change the subject when I asked about extended family. We’ll have answers soon, Carol said gently. But in my heart, I already know.
A mother knows her child even after 25 years. She reached across the table and took my hand. Her touch was warm, familiar in a way that made my chest tight.
I never stopped looking for you, Rachel. Not for a single day. The DNA results came back in 10 days instead of two weeks.
I’d been checking my email obsessively, refreshing every few minutes, my stomach in knots. When the notification finally appeared, I stared at it for 20 minutes before finding the courage to open it. 99.9% match.
I was Rachel Marie Anderson. I sat on my bathroom floor and cried until I couldn’t breathe. Not sad tears, exactly.
Not happy ones either. They were tears of complete dissolution, like I was melting away and reforming as someone else entirely. The confrontation with my parents was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I drove to their house on a Sunday, knowing they’d both be home. Mom answered the door with her usual bright smile, but it faded when she saw my face. We need to talk, I said.
They sat on their beige couch holding hands as I showed them the DNA results. Mom started crying immediately. Dad’s face went gray.
We wanted a baby so badly, Mom whispered. We’d tried for 10 years. Three miscarriages.
Failed adoptions. Then Michael’s cousin called, said she knew someone who had a little girl who needed a home. The mother was supposedly a drug addict who’d abandoned her.
You knew, I said. You had to know that wasn’t true. Dad finally spoke, his voice barely audible.
We suspected, but we were desperate. And you were so perfect, so sweet. We told ourselves we were saving you.
From what? From a family who loved me? Who searched for me for 25 years? We moved here from Ohio, not California, Mom admitted, changed our names slightly. Michael was Mark before. I was Sandra, not Susan.
We created new identities and never looked back. Every missing child poster, every news story, you had to have seen my face. We avoided them, Dad said.
Never watched the news. Never looked at those posters. We convinced ourselves you were better off with us.
They’d loved me, that was true. Given me piano lessons and helped with homework and cheered at every soccer game. But they’d also stolen me from another family who’d loved me first.
They’d let Carol Anderson spend 25 years wondering if her daughter was dead or alive. The legal complexities took months to sort out. My parents faced charges for custodial interference and identity fraud.
Their lawyers argued that the statute of limitations had passed, that they’d been good parents, that I’d had a wonderful life. All true, but it didn’t erase the crime. In the end, they received probation and community service.
The judge considered their age, their otherwise clean records, and my own complicated feelings about punishment. I didn’t want them in prison. I just wanted the truth.
Meeting Emma for the first time was surreal. My sister. She looked like me around the eyes, had the same laugh.
Her kids, my nephew and niece, accepted me with the simple openness of children. Are you the aunt who was lost? Seven-year-old Lily asked. Grandma said you were lost, but now you’re found.
Carol introduced me to the rest of the Anderson family at a barbecue that felt like stepping into an alternate life. Aunts and uncles who’d searched for me. Cousins who’d grown up hearing about the missing girl.
They welcomed me with tears and hugs and 25 years of stored-up love. I kept my name as Jessica professionally, but added Rachel legally. Jessica Rachel Anderson Thompson.
A mouthful, but it felt right. I was both people now, the one who was lost and the one who was found. The Thompsons are still in my life.
It’s complicated and sometimes painful, but they’re the only parents I remember. We have dinner once a month. Careful conversations over familiar food.
They’re in therapy, working through their choices. So am I. Carol and I have coffee every Tuesday now. She’s teaching me family history, filling in the blanks.