After my mother died, I found a photo album from my childhood – in one of the photos, a girl was standing next to me, she looked exactly like me

I was Anna. But I had never heard of Lily.

I went through each photo album again, carefully. There were countless photos of me. But there wasn't a single photo of that girl.

I couldn't understand.

My mind ran through all the possibilities. A neighbor's child. A distant cousin. A family friend. But none of it made sense.

My mind has reviewed all the possibilities.

This girl wasn't just like me. She was a part of my childhood.

What if it were my sister?

Yet, there had never been another child in our house.

What if it were my sister?

It had always just been my mother and me.

That's when I thought of my mother's sister, Margaret. She lived less than two hours away, and we hadn't spoken for years.

All I knew was that she and my mother had never gotten along. Their conversations were rare, tense, and brief. After my father's death, the fragile bond that united them ceased completely.

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