“Who was the other baby?” I asked. “The one who went home with Linda Morrison.”
Margaret pulled out another piece of paper, a print out from a social media profile. A woman my age, brown hair, brown eyes, a smile that looked exactly like Marcus’. Her name is Rachel Morrison. She’s 28 years old. She lives in Springfield, Massachusetts.
She looked at me with eyes full of decades of guilt.
“And she’s your mother’s biological daughter.”
That night, I sat in my apartment with my laptop open to Rachel Morrison’s LinkedIn profile. Elementary school teacher at Springfield Public Schools, graduate of UMass Amherst, volunteer at the local animal shelter. Her profile picture showed a woman with chestnut brown hair and warm brown eyes standing in front of a classroom decorated with colorful alphabet letters. She looked exactly like what my brother Marcus might have looked like if he’d been born a woman.
I composed the message 17 times before finally hitting send.
Hi Rachel. This is going to sound completely insane and I apologize in advance. My name is Tori Townsend. I was born at St. Mary’s Hospital in Bridgeport, Connecticut on March 15th, 1997, the same night and place as you. I recently did a DNA test that showed I’m not biologically related to either of my parents. I’ve since spoken with a nurse who was working that night and she confirmed that two babies were accidentally switched. I believe you’re the biological daughter of Diane and Gerald Townsend. And I believe I’m the biological daughter of Linda Morrison. I have documentation. I have a witness statement. I’m not looking for anything from you. I just thought you deserve to know the truth. If you’re willing to talk, please call me.
I included my phone number and closed the laptop before I could second guessess myself. 24 hours passed. I checked my phone every 10 minutes like a teenager waiting for a text back from a crush. Then at 9:38 p.m. the following night, my phone rang.
“Is this Tori?”
The voice on the other end was shaky, uncertain, but something in it felt familiar.
“Rachel.”
A long pause. A shuddering breath.
“My whole life, people have told me I don’t look like my parents. My dad—well, my legal dad—used to joke that maybe the hospital made a mistake. We all laughed about it.”
She let out a sound that was half laugh, half sobb.
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