My name is Amaya, and unlike most children, I never knew the comfort of my own parents. I was brought up by my uncle — my father's brother.
Ever since I was little, I only knew fragments of my past, pieces of a story whispered by my family. They told me my parents' marriage was never accepted. My mother, a Hindu, had married my father, a Muslim, and the families split apart in anger.
There were endless arguments, and one day, during a bitter fight, my mother was badly injured. My father, desperate to save her, left me in my uncle's care. He promised he would take her abroad for treatment and return to take me back when all was well.
But he never returned. No letters, no phone calls, no trace of him. In time, we lost all contact. And when my uncle's family lost property and were forced to move away, the link to my parents vanished completely.
So I grew up without them. Still, I was the apple of my family's eye. My grandparents, my two uncles and their wives, my aunt and her husband, and all my cousins — a big, noisy, loving family — they gave me everything.
I was the eldest child among them, pampered and protected, cared for and loved more than I could have asked. My uncle, though a Muslim, insisted that I also follow my father's Hindu traditions. And so, in our home, we celebrated both. Festivals were brighter, richer — a mixture of two worlds.
I lived a good life. I had friends, respect, love, and the gift of education. I studied hard, graduated in medicine, and began practicing as a doctor while preparing for my MS. On the outside, I seemed to have everything.
But inside, there was always a hollow place — the absence of a mother's hand, the strength of a father's embrace. Whenever I watched my cousins with their parents, or saw friends laugh with theirs, I felt the sting of emptiness.
I often wondered: Where are my parents? Do they even think of me? Why did fate keep me apart from them?
That question followed me everywhere. Even on the day that changed everything.
I was on my way to the hospital after receiving an emergency call. My phone buzzed nonstop as I hurried down the street, weaving through traffic, my mind on the patient waiting for me.
Then, in a flash, I saw something that stopped my heart: a family walking together — parents holding the hands of their little child.
For a brief moment, I imagined myself in that child's place. I imagined what it would feel like to walk between my father and mother, safe and whole. But the picture dissolved, leaving only disappointment behind.
And then it happened.
I bumped into someone. Flustered, I quickly said, "Sorry," and looked up.
My breath caught. The girl before me… she looked exactly like me. Same eyes, same face, the same stunned expression.
My mind raced. Was this some cruel trick? A mirror set in the middle of the road? Who was she? How could she exist?
But before I could say anything, my phone rang again — an urgent call from the hospital. I had no time to stop, no time to ask the questions screaming in my head.
I walked away, my thoughts in chaos, my heart pounding, leaving behind a girl who could have been… me.
That was the day the truth I had been searching for all my life began to unravel.