I didn’t lose a sister that day; I understood what she truly was. While the hospital rifled through emergency logs and rehearsed apologies for a decades-old mistake, we sifted through summers and sleepovers, the way her hand always reached for mine in crowded hallways, the way silence between us never felt empty. No test tube could quantify that kind of gravity.
When the hospital finally confirmed the mix-up, it landed with a soft, almost tender thud. The revelation had already unfolded in us, in the simple decision to keep choosing each other. Somewhere, another woman might be staring into a mirror, wondering why her reflection feels borrowed. Maybe one day we’ll meet. If we do, our story won’t fracture; it will widen. Because that night I learned: blood can identify you, but love is what refuses to let go.
