Sarah and I were inseparable growing up — two halves of one. When she had a baby at sixteen, she never told me who the father was. I loved her too much to pry.
Over the years, her son Thomas became part of my life. I babysat him, celebrated his birthdays, and watched him grow. But something about him always felt familiar — his laugh, the tilt of his head.
One afternoon, I noticed a birthmark on his waist. It was the same crescent mark that runs in my family. My heart stopped. I sent one of his spoons for a DNA test: 99.9% match. Thomas was my nephew — my brother’s child.
I kept silent for days. Then, one evening in my kitchen, Sarah confessed: “Thomas’s father is your brother.” Her guilt broke me. She hadn’t hidden the truth to shame, but to protect him.