A five-year-old’s crayon sketch shouldn’t have changed my life. But it did. The house she drew was the same one from my forgotten past. If I had been there before… why couldn’t I remember?

As a preschool teacher, I loved seeing how children expressed themselves. Lily was one of the quiet ones, always drawing. One evening, I found her sketch—a wooden house by a lake, yellow roses blooming. My breath hitched. I knew that house.

At home, I searched an old box of childhood drawings. There it was—the same house. But my past was a blur. My mother had died in an accident when I was five. My father abandoned me. Or so I was told.

The next day, I asked Lily about her drawing. “It’s my Granny’s house,” she said. My heart pounded.

Later, I spoke to her mother, Anna. “Lily wants to visit her grandmother,” I said.

“I can’t find the time. Would you take her?” she asked.

Driving up the winding path, my pulse quickened. The house stood just as in my drawings. A woman appeared on the porch. She hugged Lily, then froze when she saw me.

Inside, I spotted a framed photo. A little girl. Me.

“Who is this?” I whispered.

Tears filled her eyes. “It’s you, Emma.”

“Mom?”

She had never died. She had fled. My father had hidden the truth.

That night, Anna embraced me. “I had a sister all along.”

Lily beamed. “Now I have a real aunt.”

I had found my way home.