You were only 5 years old when they took you. Your real name is Sarah Witmore. The crowd gasped. Cameras clicked rapidly. Rashelle felt the ground tilt beneath her feet. “No,” she whispered, but even as she denied it, locked doors in her mind began to open. “Your mother’s name was Grace,” Alias continued, his eyes never leaving her face.
She had a butterfly tattoo on her wrist. “You loved strawberry ice cream and were afraid of thunderstorms. You disappeared from Butterfly Park on April 15th.” Each detail hit like a physical blow. Relle remembered the butterfly, remembered a woman’s laugh, remembered the taste of strawberry ice cream on a warm spring day.
She remembered being afraid. So afraid. And then nothing. Years of nothing. DNA tests confirm it, Elias said, his voice carrying across the now silent street. Welcome home, Sarah. Nia looked up at her mother, confusion and concern written across her young face. Mama, is it true? Rochelle couldn’t answer. The memories were coming faster now.
