I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this statement. Many people have a story to

"I want to write my life story, but I don't know where to start."Sophie named her daughter Manon. As she grew older, Manon looked nothing like her parents. She had darker skin and frizzy hair, and the neighbors started to gossip about her origins.

But Sophie never faltered. The nurse had explained that the artificial light used to treat jaundice could affect hair color. Even more, Sophie loved Manon. She knew the story of her life: her cries, her coos, her first words.

It was only when Sophie's husband accused her of giving birth to another man's baby that she went for paternity tests and discovered that her husband was right (sort of). The baby, then aged 10, wasn't his, but she wasn't Sophie's either. She belonged to another set of parents, who had been raising Sophie's biological daughter in a town several miles away.

It's a typically fascinating "switched at birth" tale. But here's where it takes an unexpected turn.

A meeting was arranged for the two mothers and their daughters. Sophie saw that her biological daughter looked just like her in a way that Manon did not and never would.

But she felt no connection to this other girl. It was Manon she had nursed, Manon whose nightmares she'd soothed, and Manon whose stories she knew. This other daughter looked just like Sophie—but what did that even mean, when she didn't know her stories? The other mother felt the same way.