The Wrong Pick-Up: Finding My Stolen Twin

The first time I went to the preschool to pick up my daughter.

I happily strapped her into the car, ready to head home.

Until she shrank into her seat and whispered:

"Mommy, are we not living in the tiny house anymore?"

I froze. When had our family ever lived in a "tiny house"?

I locked eyes with her, and the next second, I let out a piercing scream.

I sprinted frantically back to the preschool gates, colliding straight into a woman who was looking around in a panicked frenzy—and who looked exactly like me.