Three weeks after moving my family to a quiet town in Maine, I discovered a secret that changed my life forever.
While mushroom hunting behind our cottage, my son Ryan ran into a hidden clearing. Our dog started barking. When I reached him, I froze.
Among the trees were old graves. On one headstone was a photo of a little boy.
It was me.
And the birthday was mine.
That night, my wife Lily reminded me I’d been adopted at four after being found outside a house fire, with only a note saying my name was Travis.
At the library, I learned three people had died in that fire. One child was missing.
An elderly woman later told me the truth: I had an identical twin, Caleb. Our parents died. No one knew which twin survived, so my uncle placed the grave.
When I met him, he cried. He never stopped hoping.
A week later, I returned with my son.
“Is this your brother?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered. “His name was Caleb.”
And for the first time, I knew where I came from.