Inside was a fragile newspaper clipping, yellowed with age. The headline read: “Local hospital fire leaves infant missing – twins separated at birth?”
I had to read it three times before the words made sense.
The article dates from September 1974. A fire had broken out in the maternity ward of a hospital in Des Moines. In the chaos of the evacuation of premature babies, two twin girls were separated.
One of the babies was claimed by its parents after the evacuation, while the other was not found in the confusion, possibly taken to another hospital or transferred during the emergency.
My vision was blurring. I felt like I was falling even though I was sitting down.
I had a twin sister. A twin whose existence I was unaware of.
Announcements
A handwritten note was attached to the article. The message read: “We couldn’t tell her. We searched for years but found nothing. Her real sister deserved peace. Emma deserved peace. May God forgive us.”
I pressed my hand over my mouth to stop myself from crying my eyes out.
All those years spent growing up as an only child. All those times I wished I had a brother or sister, someone who understood me. And there she was, somewhere, living a completely separate life, probably never knowing anything about me either.
My mother kept this secret until her death.
Announcements
I continued rummaging through the box, my hands trembling.
There were other papers. Copies of police reports about the fire. Letters addressed to hospitals and adoption agencies, all unanswered. And then, at the very bottom, a faded postcard with no return address. Just three words in an unknown handwriting: “I’m fine.”
Nothing else. No signature. No date. But somehow, I knew it was from her. My twin sister, who once reached out to let our parents know she had survived, that she was alive somewhere.
At that moment, I realized something.
