In every photo of me until I was 6, my face is covered in scratches.

My parents always said it was because printers were low quality back then.

Today, I was visiting my aunt and found a photo album of a family gathering from 1992.

I was horrified when I discovered my face scratched out again—but the photos were clearly originals. The colors hadn’t faded, and the texture felt like something out of a professional studio. It wasn’t a printer problem. Someone had intentionally taken something sharp to my face—on every single photo.

And then I noticed something else.

On the back of one of the pictures, in faded blue ink, was a name I’d never heard before: “Mina.”

I flipped through the album, more frantic now. Some photos didn’t have me in them at all. Others had me in the background—blurry, almost like I was never meant to be seen. And in one group shot, with everyone smiling around a birthday cake, I was just… gone. Like I’d been cut out with scissors. A weird outline remained, like a missing puzzle piece.

“Aunt Caris,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Do you know who Mina is?”

She froze. Her lips parted like she was about to lie, but then she looked down at the album and sighed. “You weren’t supposed to find these.”

“What do you mean?” I sat down, heart pounding.

She took the album from me gently and closed it. “Mina was your half-sister.”

My ears started ringing. “What?”

“She was born just a year before you. Your father… he had an affair. Your mom found out right before you were born. Mina’s mother disappeared, and he never talked about it again. He made your mom swear not to tell you.”

I was stunned. “Why would that make someone scratch my face out of every photo?”

“Because Mina lived with us for a while. After her mom left. Your parents tried to raise you both—quietly, secretly. But things were… difficult. There was tension. And when Mina died in an accident—” Caris swallowed hard. “Your mom blamed herself. She couldn’t stand to look at anything that reminded her of that time. Not even you.”

It felt like the ground dropped out from under me. “She scratched me out because I reminded her of Mina?”

“She was grieving. Broken. It wasn’t right. But it’s what happened.”

My mom passed away two years ago from a heart condition. We were never that close, and I always assumed it was just her personality. Cold. Distracted. She rarely took photos, never hugged me much, never talked about my early childhood. I thought maybe she was just tired. Or depressed.

But now I realized… she was living with guilt.

When I got home later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I pulled out my own stash of childhood photos. The same pattern: my face, slashed or scribbled out. Except now, I noticed something I’d never paid attention to—on the edge of one torn picture was the faintest glimpse of another child. A girl.

Black hair. Pale skin. And eyes that looked just like mine.

I scanned it and adjusted the brightness on my laptop. The resemblance was undeniable. We could’ve been twins.

The next morning, I went to the county archives and requested any record of Mina’s birth or death. After two hours of waiting, a staff member came back, frowning.

“There’s a birth record. Mina Roselyn Haddix. Born August 15, 1985. But no death certificate. Not here.”

“What about hospital records?”

She hesitated. “I’m not supposed to share this… but there’s no accident report. Nothing matching that name. Nothing for that age range.”

I went home dizzy with confusion. If Mina died, where’s the proof? And if she didn’t…

I did something I wasn’t sure I was ready for. I messaged my father.

We hadn’t spoken in months—our relationship had always been rocky—but he replied faster than I expected.

His text said: “We need to talk. There are things I should’ve told you years ago.”

We met at a small diner the next day. His hands trembled as he sipped his coffee.

“I didn’t want you to grow up with this weight,” he said, barely looking at me. “Mina didn’t die. She was taken.”

“What?” I nearly dropped my cup.

“Her mother came back. Took her. Disappeared. I spent years trying to find them, but I couldn’t. Your mom spiraled after that. She hated herself for not doing more. She took it out on you, though she never admitted it. I should’ve protected you from that.”

“Where is Mina now?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I still hope—maybe someday, you’ll find her.”

That night, I stared at that torn photo of her. My sister.

I’d grown up thinking I was invisible. Unlovable. Always wondering why my parents seemed like they were barely there.

Now I knew they were carrying a ghost. And in a way, so was I.

But I don’t feel angry anymore. Just… open. I know I might never find her. She might not even want to be found. But I’ve started restoring the old photos. Not with Photoshop or filters—just gently taping the torn pieces back together.

Because no one deserves to be erased.

Sometimes, the people we think forgot us were just hurting too deeply to look. And healing doesn’t always come in finding answers—sometimes, it comes in forgiving what we’ll never fully understand.