I had always thought that I was adopted, but Mother and James (he refused to be called "Father") told me that I was their little miracle. It wasn't until a bleak morning in May that I was finally bored enough to read the side of the milk carton on our rickety breakfast table.
"Amanda Price, age six when abducted, would now be 15 years old. She was last seen wearing a white teeshirt and purple overalls. If you have any information as to the whereabouts of Amanda Price, please call-"
I dropped the carton. Milk came flying out in every direction, leaving the room coated in the beverage. I knew I was Amanda. I had to be. I had never felt like a "Melissa." I had never seen any photos of Mother pregnant, or a baby book reporting all of my milestones. James always brought me up in fights against Mother.
The room spun and I let the creeping darkness of unconsciousness take me.
***
When I awoke, I scribbled down the phone number on the spilled jug on my arm, wiped up the mess with a paper towel, and headed on my way to school. There was a payphone outside of the main office, and I could have some privacy.
I tried to explain the situation to the woefully unprepared man on the other end of the line, he offered to pick me up from school so he could take me to my real parents. As someone who had never fit in with my family, this was a dream come true.
It wasn't until I was back in his shed, shackled and beaten, that I noticed his printer. It was large enough that he could print whatever he wanted to on cardboard. His job as a grocery clerk allowed him to plant whatever images he pleased on the milk cartons.
It's only now, as I see my reflection in his knife that I realize just how much I look like my mother.
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