The day the results came in, the air in the room was thick enough to choke on. We sat next to each other, holding the envelopes. The producers were watching, cameras rolling, waiting for the tears or the fight.
“You go first,” the other Brady said. I opened my paper. It broke down my ancestry percentages. “53% Germanic origin,” I read aloud. Brady’s eyes widened behind his glasses.
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He ripped his envelope open. He scanned the page, his finger tracing the lines. “No way,” he whispered. “I’m 53% Germanic too.” The room went silent. The producers leaned in.
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The numbers matched perfectly. The heritage was identical. The physical traits were identical. The timeline matched. There was no way we weren’t related. It was written in the blood.