Out of curiosity, I took a DNA test and found out I had a biological brother. When I brought it up with my father, he started lying. So I decided to meet my brother in person and find out the truth. We met in a café.

“Do you remember the lake near the old house? And our dog?” he suddenly asked.

“No,” I replied, confused. “We never lived together. I just found out about you.”

He fell silent. Then he quietly said:

“They never told you who they really are?” he asked softly.

“No.”

“Then you don’t remember that day either?” 

Read the rest of the story below the photo 

My name is Billy. Until recently, I was sure I was living in a fairy tale. An only child, surrounded by endless parental love.

For my eighteenth birthday, I decided to take a DNA test. Just out of interest — to find out whether I had Scandinavian or Celtic roots, maybe even something exotic.

I never imagined the results would be what they were.

Then the email arrived. I opened it and froze.

“Close relative found: Daniel — brother (100% match on paternal and maternal lines).”

Brother? That must be a mistake. I’m an only child. I always have been. I didn’t even know anyone named Daniel.

I decided to talk to my dad.

“Dad, can I talk to you?” I asked.

“Of course. What’s wrong?”

“Remember the DNA test I took? The results came in today… Dad, do you know anyone named Daniel?”

My father turned pale.

“Where did you hear that name?” he whispered, as if afraid someone might overhear.

I told him about the test results. He was silent.

“Son, please, just don’t tell your mother. I… had an affair. Many years ago.”

I nodded. But deep down, something didn’t add up. He was talking, but not explaining.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I wrote to Daniel. He replied almost immediately.

“Billy? You’re alive?! I can’t believe it… Do you remember me?”

The next morning, we met. I spotted Daniel right away.

“Billy?” he asked, standing up with a smile.

I only nodded.

“Do you remember the lake near the old house? And our dog, Scruffy?” he suddenly asked.

“No,” I answered, confused. “We never lived together. I just found out about you.”

“You saved me. Back then, during the fire. Our house burned down. Our parents… didn’t survive. We were separated. You were adopted, I was sent to another family. I was forbidden from making contact. I searched for you.”

“No…” I whispered. “I wasn’t adopted. I’ve lived with Mom and Dad since I was a child. Always.”

“They never told you who they really are?” he asked quietly.

I walked away like I was in a dream. I didn’t know what to believe.

But the next day, when my parents were out, I made a decision. I sneaked into Dad’s office and started going through his documents.

And I found them. Old court files. About the fire. About the house where Daniel and I had lived. And the signatures of my current parents — as owners of the building.

Because of faulty wiring they refused to fix, the fire broke out. Our real parents died. And me… they adopted me. Not out of love. But to cover their tracks. To keep themselves out of prison.

That evening, I waited for them downstairs. A newspaper clipping about the fire lay in front of me.

“Dad, tell me about this,” I said, pointing at the article. “You were the owner, right?”

He turned pale again, like the other day.

“Why are you digging up the past? It was a long time ago. An accident.”

“I met someone who survived. Daniel.”

Pause. Silence. Everything was clear without words.

I went upstairs, packed my things, and left. Daniel was waiting for me outside. And even though the road ahead would be long, I knew exactly who I wanted to walk it with.

The one who is truly a part of me.