My sister and I hadn’t spoken in years. When our mom died, we reluctantly reunited at the funeral—awkward, distant, each carrying our own weight of resentment. After the service, over lukewarm coffee at a quiet café, Sarah slid a folded paper across the table, her eyes blazing with something between rage and heartbreak.
It was a DNA test result—one that showed we weren’t biologically related.
Dumbfounded, I stared at the paper, my heart pounding fiercely in my chest. Was this real? Did this mean the woman who raised us—who kissed our scraped knees and sang us to sleep—had been hiding something so enormous it could rewrite our entire childhood?
I reached out to touch the paper, but Sarah pulled it back protectively. Her usually guarded eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I’ve spent nights driving myself crazy over this,” she whispered. Her voice was unfamiliar—fragile, almost childlike.
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