No one warns you that having your life stolen on paper doesn’t sound like a crime; it sounds like humming printers, shuffling folders, the soft click of doors closing behind you. You sit under buzzing lights while strangers weigh the worth of your word against a forged line of ink. You learn to live in the margins: saving receipts, backing up emails, taking photos of every page before you sign. The people who bent your name into a weapon never admit intent—they call it error, confusion, an unfortunate mix‑up.
In the end, you don’t walk out a triumphant hero. You walk out tired, carrying a box of documents that finally match the truth you’ve been shouting in your head. You trade the life you had for one that’s smaller but solid. A place where your child’s trust, your own reflection, and the records all finally agree on who you are.
