Following the tragic deaths of my friend and her husband, I adopted their baby, Lily. A few weeks ago, my sister-in-law saw an old photo of me and my friend and asked who she was. I told her she was Lily’s mom.

The next day, she ran a DNA test on Lily behind my back using my brother’s DNA for comparison. She waved the results in my face, claiming Lily was actually my brother’s biological daughter. I was stunned.
“Look at this,” she said, shoving the printout at me. “There’s a 99.99% match. She’s family. You lied!”

I didn’t lie. At least… not knowingly. I had no idea what she was talking about. My brother and my friend? That didn’t make any sense.
My friend, Nora, had been married to a quiet man named Mark. They had their own life, small but happy. I’d never known her to be involved with anyone else. And as for my brother, Adrian—he wasn’t exactly the type to keep secrets. He’d been a mess during that time, lost in his own issues, rarely even around.
Still, the test didn’t lie.
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