She was exactly the age my own daughter would have been.

I poured everything I had into caring for her. I wanted to give Susan every piece of love I had spent 15 years unable to give to my own child.

I thought I understood why.

I had no idea how completely right that instinct was.

A week ago, Susan came home carrying a DNA test kit for a biology class project. She placed it in the center of the kitchen table during dinner with the enthusiastic energy only teenagers have.

“It’s not like I feel any less loved, and I know we’re not related. But this is going to be fun, guys!” she said, grinning first at me and then at Chris. “And hey, maybe it’ll help me find my real parents someday. The teacher said this one gives results really fast, so we won’t even have to wait a week.”

She said it casually, the way she had learned to talk about being adopted.

“Sure, honey,” I replied, telling myself it didn’t mean anything.

Chris thought the whole thing sounded entertaining. He started joking about discovering royal ancestors while Susan rolled her eyes and I laughed along with them.

We mailed the samples and soon forgot about them.

The results were sent directly to Susan, and I hadn’t seen them yet. The day they arrived, something about her felt off.

She barely spoke during dinner. Whenever I looked at her, she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. Then she turned to Chris and asked if they could talk privately. Just the two of them.

I stayed in the kitchen while they went down the hallway. I heard the door close, followed by low voices… and then unmistakably, Susan crying.