For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Twenty-five years of friendship. Thousands of memories. And now a doctor was suggesting that we might be family.
“But could that hurt our babies?” I asked.
“Being related to each other doesn’t automatically mean your children have a genetic disorder,” he reassured us. “We also need to rule out any biological connection to the donor.”
We agreed to further testing.
The next six days were unbearable.
Every night, I lay awake with one hand on my stomach, whispering prayers for my unborn son.
Emily came over almost every evening.
One night, sitting in my kitchen, she suddenly asked:
“Sarah, remember how your father always said we looked strangely alike?”
I nodded.
“And my adoptive mother always joked that we had the same smile,” she continued.
We stared at each other.
“What if it wasn’t a coincidence?”
That night, memories of my childhood came flooding back.
