Inside Edition offered to pay for the test. It felt like a reality show, but it was our real lives. We sat in a sterile room, swabbing our cheeks, joking to hide the tension. “If we’re brothers, do I get half your signing bonus?” I asked.
The wait for the results was agonizing. Every time my phone buzzed, I jumped. I looked at my parents differently, searching for guilt in their eyes. They stuck to their story, but the doubt was a worm eating at my brain.
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If we were brothers, it meant a family was broken. It meant someone had lied for thirty years. It meant my identity as an only child was false. If we weren’t brothers, it meant something arguably stranger.
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How could the universe accidentally create two of us? The odds were astronomical. Same name, same face, same job, same injury, same doctor. It was statistically impossible.