It’s raining so hard that the porch light looks like it’s glowing beneath water. When I open the door, my sister Megan stands there, soaked to the bone, clutching a manila envelope in one hand—and holding a little girl’s hand with the other.
“This child isn’t ours,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Not anymore.”
The words hit harder than the thunder outside.
We rush inside. My husband, Lewis, gently takes the little girl—Ava—to the couch and turns on cartoons. I make tea I know we won’t drink. Megan sits at the kitchen table, opening the envelope like it’s a live flame. Inside are DNA results, official letters, and a legal stamp that seems to tilt the entire room.
Her eyes find mine. “We did a genetic test,” she says. “For medical history. It came back… she’s related to me. First-degree.” Megan takes a breath. “Hannah—she’s yours.”
At first, I laugh—because that’s what your brain does when the impossible happens. Then the memories hit like a wave.
Twenty-two years old. Broke. Heartbroken after a reckless office affair. Pregnant and terrified.
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