“Billy? Is it really you? I can’t believe it!”
We arranged to meet the next day, and when I saw him, it felt like looking in a mirror. “Billy,” he greeted, eyes wide. We sat in silence until he finally spoke, memories flooding back. “Remember the lake by our old house? We used to throw rocks into the water and chase Scruffy around.”
I shook my head, baffled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just found out you existed.” Daniel’s smile faded. “What? We lived together until we were five. Don’t you remember the fire?”
A chill ran down my spine. “What fire?” I stammered.
He looked at me with sadness. “Our house caught fire when we were kids. Our parents didn’t make it out. You saved me, Billy. But then… you were adopted, and I went to foster care. They said we could never reach out to each other.”
I could barely breathe. Adopted? I had always thought I would know. Yet doubt gnawed at me. When I got home, I sneaked into Dad’s office and rifled through old documents, uncovering the truth. A lawsuit, buried deep in a drawer, detailed the fire at our family’s former apartment. Faulty wiring, ignored by the property owners, had led to the blaze that took my real parents’ lives.
The owners were my adoptive parents.
It hit me like a punch to the gut. They hadn’t adopted me out of love; they had done it to cover their tracks and escape guilt.
That evening, I confronted Dad. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked, holding up the documents. He stammered, but his excuses fell flat. The betrayal overwhelmed me. I packed my things, ignoring Dad’s pleas, and called Daniel, who offered me a place to stay.
As I settled into his home, still reeling, he looked at me with understanding. “They may have taken you away, but we’re together now,” he said. For the first time in days, I felt a glimmer of peace.
In the midst of heartbreak, I had gained something irreplaceable—a brother, my family. And for that, despite everything, I was grateful.