My uncle once asked me, ‘Are you a virgin?’ when I was already 27 years old. From that moment, I started to be afraid of him. And a few days later, when he took me to a hotel outside the city, he leaned close to my ear by the pool and whispered, ‘After the pool, come up to my room…’”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that the little girl in that photograph grew up believing a lie about her family.”

I looked at the baby again.

Then I looked at Richard.

“Is she alive?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?”

He pushed the photograph closer.

“Her name is Sarah.”

The name meant nothing to me.

I shook my head.

“I don’t know anyone called Sarah.”

“You do.”

I felt my chest tighten.

“Richard, stop playing games with me.”

He reached into the envelope and removed a second document.

This time, it was a hospital record.

My name was printed near the top.

Emily Margaret Hayes.

Below it was my date of birth.

I stared at the paper, confused.

“Why do you have my medical records?”

Richard’s expression hardened.

“Because someone altered the original records when you were born.”

For several seconds, I couldn’t understand the sentence.

Then I read the page again.