Out of simple curiosity, I decided to take a DNA test—I wanted to see if I had any Scandinavian or Celtic ancestry. Little did I imagine where this would lead. When the results arrived, my heart pounded with shock: “First-degree relative detected: Daniel – brother (100% match on both sides).”
Being an only child raised in a loving family, I had never heard of any Daniel. Confused, I confronted my father. He went pale and, whispering as if afraid, begged me not to tell anyone—he once had a relationship “a long time ago.” I nodded but couldn’t shake the growing doubt inside me.
Driven by the need for answers, I contacted Daniel myself and was surprised to receive a nearly immediate reply: “Billy? You’re alive? Didn’t expect that… Remember me?” The next day, we met at a small café. His gaze and voice felt like a wake-up call from a dream.
“Do you recall the old house by the lake and our dog, Scruffy?” he asked suddenly.
I shook my head. “No… We never lived together.” His eyes darkened.
He revealed that as children, we had witnessed a fire that claimed the lives of our biological parents. He was taken in by one family, I by another, and later adopted by the parents who raised me. My memories seemed erased, but his remained intact.
Shaken, I returned home and, while my parents were away, found court records about the fire in my father’s study: the house was registered under our adoptive parents, and the cause was faulty wiring they knew about but failed to fix. Our biological parents died, and we were separated to cover up their negligence.
That evening, I waited for them in the living room, holding an old, yellowed newspaper clipping about the fire. “Will you tell me the truth?” I asked, showing the article. My father fell silent. I added quietly, “I met Daniel.”
Words became unnecessary—I read everything in his eyes. The next morning, I packed my bags and left. At the door stood my brother. And though we have a lifetime ahead, I’m certain of one thing: I will stand by the side of the one who is truly mine.