A single email changed everything. I took a DNA test for fun on my 18th birthday, expecting to learn about ancestry—not discover I had a brother. Confused, I asked my dad about it. He went pale and admitted to having an affair years ago—Daniel, my supposed half-brother, was the result. But something didn’t add up. I contacted Daniel, and when we met, he dropped a bomb:
we weren’t strangers. We’d lived together as kids until a house fire killed our biological parents. I had no memory of it. According to Daniel, we were separated afterward—he went into foster care, and I was adopted. I didn’t believe him at first,
until I found hidden documents in my dad’s office. The fire had been caused by faulty wiring—in a building my adoptive parents owned. They adopted me not just out of guilt, but to avoid a lawsuit. I confronted them. The truth shattered everything I believed. I left that night,
staying with Daniel—the brother I didn’t know I had. Though my world had turned upside down, I found something I didn’t know I was missing: the truth, and a family that was always mine.
