An email shattered everything I knew. The DNA results weren’t just numbers—they revealed I had a brother. But I was an only child. At least, that’s what my parents had always said.

I’m Billy. My life seemed perfect—loving parents, the latest gadgets, and unconditional support. On my 18th birthday, I took a DNA test out of curiosity. When it revealed a close match named Daniel, I panicked. The company confirmed it wasn’t a mistake.

That night, I asked my dad if he knew Daniel. His face went pale. He confessed to an old affair, claiming Daniel was the result. But something felt off.

I messaged Daniel. When we met, he stunned me: “We grew up together… until the fire.” He remembered our old house, the lake, even a rusty swing. Then came the truth: our parents died in a fire caused by faulty wiring. I was adopted. Daniel wasn’t.

I searched Dad’s office and found legal papers—my adoptive parents had owned the building that burned. They didn’t adopt me out of love. They did it to bury guilt.

I confronted them and left. Daniel took me in.

Everything I knew was a lie—but now, I had someone real. I had a brother.