I called the DNA company, hoping for a mistake, but they confirmed the match. That evening, I asked Dad if he knew someone named Daniel. His face went pale. He confessed to an affair years ago—Daniel was the result.
Still, something felt off.
When I messaged Daniel, he replied instantly. We met at a café the next day. He looked just like me. Then he said something that shook me: “Do you remember the fire?”
He claimed we’d grown up together until our house burned down, killing our biological parents. I had saved him. We were separated—he to foster care, me to adoption. My current parents? They were landlords of the burned building.
Searching Dad’s office, I found documents proving Daniel’s story. My adoptive parents had taken me in not out of love—but guilt.
I left home that night.
Now, I’m with Daniel. The truth hurt, but in it, I found something real: a brother. A bond that survived the fire.
