At 3:14 a.m., a DNA app told me my husband of 25 years had a daughter I’d never heard of. By the next afternoon, I was standing in a hospital lobby while a pale young woman looked me in the eye and said, “I’m here because of him.”
The discovery that turned my life upside down started as a joke.
That’s what I keep coming back to, even now.
Sophie dropped the little white boxes onto the dining table during Christmas dinner like she was dealing poker cards, one in front of each place setting.
“Family DNA kits!” she announced. “So we can see how Irish we actually are.”
Daniel looked up from his phone. “Great. Now we’ll find out we’re 2% Viking and Mom will never let it go.”
“I would,” I said, and nobody believed me.
It started as a joke.
My husband, Mark, picked up his box and turned it over, studying it with a skeptical expression. “How much did you pay for these?”
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