Back home, my sister and I sat with our parents at the kitchen table while I explained what the nurse had shown me. No one spoke for several moments. My dad stared at the old wooden surface, tracing invisible shapes with his finger. My mom held her hands together tightly, as if she was afraid the slightest movement would break the moment in half. My sister, always the practical one, finally asked, “So… I might not be biologically related to you?” I nodded, feeling an ache I hadn’t expected. But then something happened that shifted everything. My mom leaned forward and reached for both of our hands. “Listen,” she said, her voice steady and warm, “biology is one part of life. But I held you both when you were minutes old. I raised you. I dried your tears, celebrated your victories, and watched you grow together. Nothing in a lab result changes that.” My sister’s eyes softened, and for the first time since the DNA results arrived, she smiled.
The next day, we returned to the hospital together to speak with the administration. Continue reading…
