I thought that question would shatter us, that once doubt crawled in, it would gnaw through every memory we’d ever shared. But sitting at the kitchen table, with the world tilting under our feet, something else happened. My mother didn’t scramble for proof or demand explanations. She simply laced her fingers through ours, as if anchoring us to a truth no test could measure. We listened to the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the clock ticking too loudly, our breaths uneven but shared.

When the hospital finally admitted their mistake, it didn’t magically restore the old version of reality. There was still the haunting awareness that another girl, somewhere, might be staring at her own reflection with new uncertainty. Yet instead of unraveling, we made room for that unseen life while fiercely guarding our own. We chose to believe that every scraped knee, every late-night confession, every argument and reconciliation had already answered the only question that mattered. Biology could whisper its doubts; our lives had already spoken.