It started with a casual DNA test—just for fun. Then came the shock: I had a brother. His name was Daniel. When I asked my dad, he turned pale. “Don’t tell your mom,” he whispered. “It was an affair. She doesn’t know.” I promised silence—but I couldn’t let it go.
I met Daniel days later. He was warm, familiar. Then he said something that floored me: “Remember the lake by our house? Scruffy chasing rocks?” I’d never lived near a lake. We’d never lived together. He looked confused. “What do you mean? You were there—until you disappeared.” Turns out, we did grow up together—until I was four. Daniel remembered our room, bath time, my odd sock habit. But I had no memory of it.
