It started as a joke. A birthday gift to myself. I took a DNA test expecting to learn I was part Viking or had a few distant cousins in Europe. Instead, I found a full-blood sibling named Daniel. A brother I had no memory of.
I was Billy, the only child of two loving parents who made life feel perfect. Dad bought me video games “just because.” Mom made animal-shaped pancakes every Sunday. We were a tight little triangle. Or so I thought.
When I asked my dad about Daniel, his face went white. He begged me not to tell my mom and admitted to an affair years ago. He said Daniel must be the result of that. I agreed to stay quiet, but his fear felt deeper than guilt. Something wasn’t right.
That night, I messaged Daniel. He replied instantly and talked like we’d grown up together. He asked if I remembered the lake, the swing set, our dog Scruffy. I didn’t.
I told him what my father had said. Daniel went silent. When we finally met, he looked at me and said, “You think I’m the mistake? You don’t remember the fire?”
He told me we’d lived together as kids. That our house burned down while our parents were out. That I saved him. And after the fire, we were separated—he went into the system, and I was adopted by the people I believed were my parents.
I told him he was wrong.
But my heart wasn’t so sure.
