Long lost

Samantha was a forty‑one‑year‑old career woman, a loving wife, and the mother of six children. Her two oldest daughters, Sarah and Caitlyn, were born while she and her husband, Jeremiah, were still in college. But almost sixteen years ago, their lives shattered when the girls were kidnapped during a carjacking. Sarah was eight. Caitlyn was five.

The trauma nearly destroyed them.

For five years, Samantha and Jeremiah searched relentlessly, chasing leads, clinging to hope, and reliving the pain every single day—until they made the heartbreaking decision to stop. Not because they had given up, but because the constant grief was consuming them. Instead, they found other ways to cope.

Every year, they traveled to celebrate their daughters’ birthdays. They founded an organization dedicated to helping families of missing children. Eventually, they relocated from Denver to Miami, hoping the change might help them breathe again.

Life moved forward, even when their hearts resisted it.

Samantha and Jeremiah continued growing their family. Jeremiah Jr. came first, followed by Karter, then the twins—Ezra and Elijah. Chaos, laughter, noise, and love filled their home, though the absence of Sarah and Caitlyn never truly left.

This year, for Sarah’s twenty‑fourth birthday, Samantha and Jeremiah planned a trip to California.

“Yeah, we leave next week. The boys have a football game this weekend, so I’m trying to make sure everyone’s packed by Monday,” Samantha said into her phone, balancing it between her ear and shoulder as she flipped through hangers.

She held up a pair of swim trunks. “Do you guys like these?”

“No,” Jeremiah Jr. and Karter said in unison, shaking their heads.

Two young women entered the store as Samantha placed the hanger back. One was slightly taller, wearing an ocean‑blue halter crochet dress decorated with tiny seashells and a brown crossbody bag. The other wore a black crop top, green cargo pants, and a baseball cap covered in stitched patches.

They were both beautiful at first glance.

“Come on, boys,” Samantha said, walking deeper into the store. “And stop throwing the ball before you break something.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the twins echoed—right before running off, still tossing the football.

Her two oldest sons were easy to manage; give them their phones and they were content. The twins, however, never outgrew their terrible‑two phase.

Splash.

The football knocked a Starbucks cup from the taller girl’s hand.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Ezra and Elijah rushed forward.

“Let me call you back,” Samantha said to her best friend, hanging up. “What did I tell y’all about throwing the ball?” she snapped, yanking the football from Ezra’s hand.

“I am so sorry, ma’am. Please let me reimburse you,” Samantha said, already digging through her purse, not looking up.

“It’s fine—it’s just a drink,” the young woman replied.

“No, really—” Samantha started, but the girl gently grabbed her hand.

The moment froze them both.

A chill ran through Samantha’s body as she looked up. The young woman seemed equally shaken, pulling her hand back quickly. She had big brown eyes with hints of green, sun‑kissed golden skin, natural curls, and a smile bright enough to light a room.

But that wasn’t what caught Samantha’s breath.

It was the birthmark.

Large. Distinctive. Wrapping almost entirely around the girl’s neck.

“I insist,” Samantha said with a nervous smile, trying to steady herself.

“Trust me, it’s fine,” the taller girl said. “We have a little brother about that age at home. He gives everyone a hard time.”

The shorter girl laughed. Her skin was flawless, her nose pierced with a small hoop, braces flashing when she smiled—white rubber bands stretched across hazel‑brown eyes.

“Then you know exactly what I’m dealing with,” Samantha chuckled, guiding her boys aside so the janitor could clean up.

“I’m sorry again. Enjoy your day, ladies.”

Later, Samantha sat in the food court, Face Timing Jeremiah.

She told him about the incident, about the girls—and about the feeling she couldn’t shake.

“I think I’m hallucinating again,” she admitted quietly.

“Babe,” Jeremiah said gently, “it’s just your mind. Sarah’s birthday is coming up—you have triggers.”

“Do you think you should go see Dr. Thomas again?”

“No. I’m fine,” Samantha replied softly.

She wasn’t—not really.

Two years after the kidnapping, Samantha had suffered a breakdown and was hospitalized. She’d heard children crying and was convinced it was one of her girls screaming for help.

“No dessert for the twins,” Jeremiah said. “They need to learn their lesson. I’ve got to get back to work. Call me if you need anything.”

“Love you,” Samantha said as the call ended.

“Okay, boys, I’ll be right back. I’m grabbing ice cream,” she said, standing. “Jr., watch your brothers.”

Standing in line, scrolling her phone, Samantha heard two familiar voices behind her.

“So, are you inviting James to the party or not?” the shorter girl asked.

“I haven’t decided,” the taller one replied, tension in her voice. “After last year? Mom and Dad won’t be happy.”

“But it’s your twenty‑fourth birthday,” the shorter girl said. “Aren’t you tired of trying to please them?”

Samantha’s heart skipped.

The birthmark. The birthday.

It’s just your mind playing tricks on you, she whispered to herself.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” the cashier asked.

“I’ll take two vanilla double‑scoop waffle cones and a strawberry smoothie,” Samantha said. “And whatever they’re having.”

“Oh—we were—” the taller girl started.

“Speak for yourself,” the shorter one laughed, ordering anyway.

“I’m sorry,” the taller girl said. “She can be a little… much.”

“It’s okay,” Samantha smiled. “And I overheard someone’s birthday.”

“Yes,” the young woman said. “I’ll be twenty‑four next week.”

“Happy early birthday,” Samantha replied, forcing calm.

As she walked away, adjusting her purse strap, something slipped out.

“Hey—you dro—” the taller girl stopped short, picking it up.

It was a photo.

Two little girls in matching Christmas pajamas, standing in front of a tree.

Her entire body went cold.

“Kel’s, are you okay?” her sister asked.

“Yes—but look,” Kelsey whispered, handing her the picture. “That little girl has the same birthmark as me… and she looks like me.”

The sisters had always known they were adopted. They were told their biological parents were killed and their names changed to protect them.

Kelsey turned and walked toward Samantha.

“Who are you,” she demanded, “and why do you have a picture of me as a kid in your bag? Do I know you? Are you following us?”

To Be Continued…