I knew my sister hated me. But I didn’t imagine how far she was willing to go, until the day she slipped a birthday present on the table while laughing.
« Maybe that will explain why you’re another man’s mistake, » she said loud enough for all the forks to stop in mid-flight.
I swallowed the shame, sent the kit in the mail… and expected.
A few months later, the family estate attorney requested an urgent meeting about Grace Ellington.
My mother turned pale.
Naomi stopped smiling.
And at that very moment, I understood something terrifying: they already knew what I was going to discover.
We often imagine the family as a refuge. Mine looked more like a house with icy floors: beautiful on the outside, hostile as soon as you walked through the door.
Growing up in the Ellington House in Denver, I learned to be discreet at an early age. I was the good child, the one who did her homework without being asked, the one who melted into the corners to avoid my mother’s sighs or my sister’s contemptuous looks.
Naomi was still in the center of the room. She knew how to capture attention without ever really deserving it: loud laughter, theatrical stories, overwhelming presence. And my mother, Evelyn, applauded her every move.
When Naomi had a B, she was « balanced. » When I brought A’s everywhere, my mom would blink and say, « That’s good, Grace. Can you set the table? »
At 35, I had built a life away from this house. Austin suited me: quiet mornings, a stable routine, a job as a financial analyst. Then my father, James Ellington, died.
He had been the only really constant presence of my childhood. Few words, but a discreet warmth. I didn’t know yet that he carried a secret much heavier than anything I could have imagined.
Three months after her funeral, my mother insisted on hosting a birthday dinner at the family home. His voice on the phone sounded too cheerful, too prepared.
As soon as I arrived, I felt that something was wrong. Naomi was smiling as if she was waiting for her moment. My mother drank too fast. This dinner was not a celebration. It was staged.
When dessert arrived—an ordinary cake, still in its box—Naomi stood up.
« I have a gift for you, » she said.
She pushed a silver box towards me.
Inside: the DNA test.
« Maybe that will explain why you were never really part of that family. »
My mother jumped. But she didn’t say anything.
That evening, in my old room, I rummaged through the boxes. I found a photo: my mother holding a baby — me — next to a man I had never seen. On the back, a single sentence: Forgive me.
The next morning, I sent the test.
Not for Naomi.
For me.The results came in five weeks later, on an ordinary Tuesday.
No biological connection to the Ellington family.
An unknown name appeared: Hartman.
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