All it took was one click.
One harmless, curiosity-driven click—and the life I knew split straight down the middle.
I stared at the DNA test results glowing on my laptop, refreshing the page like it might suddenly apologize and admit a mistake. My mind hunted for logic. My heart didn’t bother. It already understood something was very wrong.
My name is Billy. Until that moment, I believed I had the kind of childhood people envy. I was an only child, endlessly loved, endlessly indulged. Sunday mornings meant my mom’s pancakes. Random Tuesdays meant surprise gifts from my dad.
“Why the new console?” I asked him once, laughing in disbelief.
He grinned. “Does my favorite son need a reason?”
Mom called from the kitchen, “Your only son.”
Dad winked. “Exactly.”
That was us. Solid. Untouchable. Or so I thought.
The DNA test was supposed to be fun—a birthday gift to myself when I turned eighteen. Maybe I’d find out I had distant ancestors from somewhere exciting. Nothing serious. Just curiosity.
When the email arrived, I opened it without hesitation.
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