When the results came back, I opened them alone in my apartment.
The screen did not identify me as an adopted stranger.
It showed that I was a close biological match to David Harris.
Predicted relationship: father.
By Friday, three families would be torn apart.
Part 2
I kept staring at the DNA report until the letters began to blur.
David Harris.
My uncle.
My biological father.
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Every birthday, every Christmas, and every time my parents had said “we chose you because you were special” split apart in my memory. I had not been adopted from an unknown college student. I was biologically connected to the very family that had spent my entire life deceiving me.
Before I could lose my nerve, I called the number I found for David in Seattle.
He picked up after four rings.
“Hello?”
My throat tightened. “Is this David Harris?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“My name is Emma.”
A pause followed.
It was not confusion.
It was recognition.
Then he whispered, “Emma?”
My legs nearly collapsed beneath me.
“You know me.”
He released a shaky breath. “I’ve known about you since before you were born.”
I pressed my palm against my chest. “Are you my father?”
