The police told my parents my twin sister died when we were five years old.
They said there had been an accident.
They said they found only her ball.
No body.
No witnesses.
Just a quiet explanation everyone was expected to accept.
I didn’t fully understand death at that age — only loss.
One day, I had a twin.
The next day, she was gone.
Whenever I asked questions, my mother shut them down.
My father avoided my eyes.
Eventually, my curiosity was replaced with silence.
“Don’t bring her up again,” my mother warned me once.
“Ella is gone.”
So I grew up alone, carrying an emptiness I could never explain.
Life moved on.
I moved across the country, built a family, buried my parents, and tried to forget the past — but something never felt right.
Then, 68 years later, everything changed.
I was standing in a grocery store line when I heard a laugh behind me.
It was my laugh.
Same sound.
Same rhythm.
Same voice.
I slowly turned around — and froze.
The woman behind me looked exactly like me.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same scar above the eyebrow from when we were children.
It felt like staring into a living mirror.
My hands trembled as I tapped her shoulder.
She turned.
Her eyes widened in shock.
Before I could stop myself, I cried out,
“Oh my God… Ella?”
Her face went pale.
She whispered my name.
In that moment, the truth came out.
There had never been an accident.
Our parents had given her away.
They were overwhelmed.
Scared.
Convinced they couldn’t raise twins.
So they sent her to distant relatives — and told everyone she had died.
Including me.
Ella grew up believing her twin didn’t want her.
I grew up believing my sister was dead.
We lost nearly seven decades because of one lie.
Standing there in that grocery store, crying and holding each other, we realized something painful — but also powerful.
We weren’t lost.
We were separated.
And after 68 years…
we finally found our way back.
