I had just turned 18 when I ordered the ancestry test, curious to see if I had some exotic roots. I laughed, refreshed my inbox nonstop, and ignored the idea that it could mean anything serious. When the results finally arrived, my excitement turned to shock. Listed right there was a close family match. A brother. His name was Daniel. I stared at the screen, convinced it had to be a mistake, but the company confirmed the results were accurate.

That night, I confronted my dad. The moment I said Daniel’s name, his face drained of color. After a long silence, he admitted he’d had an affair years ago and begged me not to tell my mom. According to him, Daniel was the result of that secret. I agreed to keep quiet, but nothing about the explanation sat right with me. My thoughts raced, and sleep never came.

Unable to let it go, I messaged Daniel. He replied almost instantly, and we agreed to meet. The next day, sitting across from someone who looked exactly like me, my certainty began to crumble. When he talked about our childhood—our house, a lake, a swing set, even a dog I had no memory of—I felt my stomach drop. Then he looked at me and said, confused and hurt, “You think I’m the affair child? So you really don’t remember?” In that moment, I realized the truth might be far more devastating than I ever imagined.