I took the test on a whim when I turned 18, curious about my ancestry, never expecting it to reveal anything life-altering. When the results finally came in, I was over the moon with excitement. But the moment I saw the word “brother,” my world began to unravel. A close match. His name was Daniel. I couldn’t believe it. I was an only child. How could this be? In a daze, I called the company’s helpline, hoping for an explanation. But the representative assured me that the results were 100% accurate. Desperate for answers, I decided to confront my dad that evening.

When I brought up the name “Daniel,” my father’s reaction told me everything I needed to know. His face drained of color, and he asked me not to tell my mom. He then confessed that he had an affair years ago, and that Daniel was the result. He begged me to keep it a secret, fearing it would destroy our family. But something about his reaction felt off. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story. That night, I reached out to Daniel, and much to my surprise, he responded. We agreed to meet the next day at a café, where I discovered a truth I wasn’t ready for.

Daniel and I sat across from each other, and I soon realized we shared an uncanny resemblance. As he spoke of our past, memories flooded back to him—memories I had no recollection of. He told me about the fire that took our parents’ lives when we were young and how I had saved him. It turned out I had been adopted after the fire, and my adoptive parents had hidden the truth. My world turned upside down as I learned the dark secret my parents had kept from me. I found documents that revealed they had owned the building where the fire occurred and had neglected to fix the wiring, which caused the fire. My parents hadn’t adopted me out of love; they had done it to cover up their guilt. I confronted them, but it was too late—I was done. I moved in with Daniel, finally finding the family I had been denied.