“Read the bottom line,” the geneticist told us. We both looked down at the final conclusion, the part that determined sibling status. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I looked at Brady. He looked at me. We were two versions of the same man, separated by five years and a thousand miles, brought together by a torn ligament and a receptionist’s error.
[readalso]
“Relationship probability,” I read, my voice shaking. I expected 99.9%. I expected to turn to him and hug a brother I never knew I had. I expected my world to break open.
[readalso]
The number on the page didn’t make sense. I blinked, thinking I misread it. I looked at the geneticist, then back at the paper. It defied every piece of visual evidence sitting on the couch.