I’m Billy, and until a few days ago, I thought my life was perfect. I’m an only child—or so I believed. My parents always spoiled me, always told me how lucky they were to have their “only son.” I never questioned it.
When I turned 18, I ordered a DNA test out of curiosity. Just for fun. I wasn’t looking for answers.
Instead, I found a brother.
Daniel.
The company confirmed it wasn’t a mistake. When I confronted my dad, his face drained of color. He begged me not to tell my mom and claimed Daniel was the result of an old affair. The explanation felt wrong, but I didn’t know why.
So I messaged Daniel.
We met the next day, and the moment I saw him, it felt like looking into a mirror. He spoke about memories I didn’t have—two boys, a lake, a dog, a shared childhood. Then he said the words that shattered everything:
“We’re twins. They took you away.”
Fragments flashed in my mind—cake frosting, laughter, a hand beside mine. Daniel told me our birth mother died in a car accident, that we were separated, and that he’d been waiting years to find me.
I went home and asked my parents one question:
“Who am I?”
This time, they didn’t lie.
They admitted the truth—they weren’t my biological parents. They loved me, raised me, and kept me… but they never reunited me with my twin because they were afraid of losing me.
Now everything I believed is fractured. I don’t know who I am yet.
But I do know this—I’m done pretending.