It started as a joke—a fun birthday gift to myself. I took a DNA test, expecting to find out I had a sliver of Viking heritage or maybe a few distant cousins somewhere in Europe. But what I got was something I could’ve never imagined: a full-blood sibling named Daniel. A brother. One I had no memory of.
I stared at the results, thinking it had to be a mistake. I was Billy, the only child of two loving parents who made life feel like a dream. Dad surprised me with video games “just because,” and Mom made pancakes shaped like animals every Sunday. We were the perfect triangle—tight, simple, whole. At least, I thought we were.
