When I was twenty-one, one phone call divided my life into before and after.
My dad asked me to come over that evening. His calm voice felt wrong. He wouldn’t explain, only said, “Everyone will be there.”
That night, sitting in the living room, he took a breath and said, “I want you to meet your sister.”
I laughed at first. I was an only child. Or so I thought.
Then a young woman stepped forward. She was pregnant—and also twenty-one. We had been born just weeks apart.
Slowly, the truth came out. In the late 1970s, my parents and my mom’s best friend were young and reckless. My dad had a brief affair with her. Both women became pregnant by him.
My dad stayed with my mom. The other woman struggled alone, moving from place to place. She died years later, and that loss pushed her daughter to search for answers.
The only proof she had was a worn teddy bear my dad had once given her mother. When he saw it, he knew immediately.
There were no photos or records—just a truth buried for decades.
That night, two strangers realized they were sisters, and our family changed forever.