When she confronted the records clerk, the woman’s polite smile stiffened. “Sometimes files go missing, especially older ones,” she said. But her tone lacked conviction, and her eyes darted away. It wasn’t just missing paperwork. It felt like a purposeful cleaning of a past someone wanted forgotten.
She called her parents again that evening, desperation sharpening her voice. “Why are there missing health records? Why does it look like parts of my childhood were erased?” Silence lingered on the line before her mother answered softly, “You’re imagining patterns. There’s nothing to hide.” The gentleness only enraged her more.