It started as a joke—a fun birthday gift to myself. I took a DNA test, expecting to find out I had a sliver of Viking heritage or maybe a few distant cousins somewhere in Europe. But what I got was something I could’ve never imagined: a full-blood sibling named Daniel. A brother. One I had no memory of.
I stared at the results, thinking it had to be a mistake. I was Billy, the only child of two loving parents who made life feel like a dream. Dad surprised me with video games “just because,” and Mom made pancakes shaped like animals every Sunday. We were the perfect triangle—tight, simple, whole. At least, I thought we were.
When I asked my dad about Daniel, his face turned pale. His voice dropped to a whisper, and he begged me not to tell my mom. He admitted he’d had an affair years ago. Said Daniel must be the result of that. I agreed to keep it quiet, but something about his panic felt off. It wasn’t just guilt—it was fear. There was more to the story.
I messaged Daniel that night. He replied instantly and asked if I remembered the lake, the swing set, our dog Scruffy. He spoke like we had grown up together. But I hadn’t. I told him what my father had said—that he was the child from an affair.
Daniel went quiet, then looked me straight in the eye when we met. “You think I’m the mistake?” he said. “You don’t remember the fire?”
He told me that we had lived together as children. That our house burned down while our parents were out. That I had saved him. And that after the fire, we were separated—he ended up in the system, and I was adopted by the people I thought were my parents.
I told him he was wrong. That I would know if I had been adopted.