“So I decided to find out for myself,” he said. “Without asking you. Without hurting Dad.”
He looked down at the paper.
“Ben said his mom kept all her papers in her desk,” he said. “Locked. But Ben knew where the key was. In a coffee mug on the bookshelf.”
“Ben and I already had the apartment lined up,” Luke said. “For the fall. I told you I wanted to move in early. You thought I was just excited.”
He laughed a little. It wasn’t a happy sound.
“I was excited,” he said. “Just not about the apartment.”
“Tuesday night, after Dad left,” Luke said, “Ben and I drove to his mom’s house. She was working a night shift. We let ourselves in. We opened the desk.”
He pointed at the yellowed donor profile.
“That was in a folder,” he said. “With her name on it. And there was a sticky note on the folder. In her handwriting.”
He swallowed.
“It said, Same as Sarah’s. Tell the boys at 18.”
Part Ten: Why He Was Scared
I put my face in my hands.
Tell the boys at 18.
Dana had written it down. Eighteen years ago. So she wouldn’t forget.
And we’d both forgotten anyway. Or we’d pretended to.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Luke, I’m so sorry. We should have told you. We were going to. We kept saying next year. Next birthday. After graduation.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked.
I looked up at him.
“Because I was scared,” I said.
“Of what?”
“Of this,” I said. “Of you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now. Of you looking at your dad differently.”
I wiped my eyes.
“Of you finding out that your whole life,” I said, “your best friend was your brother, and we let you think he was just a friend.”
Luke was quiet for a long time.
“Is that why you always laughed?” he asked. “When people asked if we were twins?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Why did you lock the door?” I asked him.
He looked toward the front hall.
“Because I didn’t want Dad to walk in,” he said quietly. “Not until I knew for sure.”
His voice broke.
“Mom, I didn’t want him to see my face when I found out,” he said. “I didn’t want him to see me finding out he’s not my real dad.”
“And why did you say not to call Ben?”
Luke took a shaky breath.
“Because Ben’s been a mess for three months,” he said. “Ever since graduation. He keeps saying it’s his fault. That he shouldn’t have taken the test. That he ruined my family.”
He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“He’s been sleeping on the couch in our apartment,” Luke said. “Even though he has a bedroom. He says he doesn’t want to be alone. He keeps asking if I hate him.”
“Do you?” I asked.
Luke looked at me like I’d asked the stupidest question in the world.
“He’s my best friend,” he said. “He’s been my best friend since we were two. He’s the only person in the world who’s always been there.”
He laughed. Tears were running down his face.
“And now I find out he’s my brother,” he said. “And I’m supposed to be upset about that? Mom, I always wanted a brother. Every single Christmas. You remember. I asked Santa for a brother every year until I was nine.”
I remembered.
Every Christmas list, in crayon. A brother. A bike. Legos.
In that order.
“I’m not upset about Ben,” Luke said. “I’m upset about Dad.”
Part Eleven: Mike
At 6:52, we heard a truck pull into the driveway.
Luke went completely still.
I heard the truck door slam. Heavy boots on the walkway. Then the sound of a key in the front door.
The deadbolt was still locked. The key wouldn’t turn.
Mike knocked.
“Sarah?” he called. “Door’s locked. You okay?”
Luke looked at me. His face was white.
“Mom,” he whispered. “What do I do?”
I looked at my son. Eighteen years old. Six-foot-two. Dark hair, gray-green eyes, a dimple in his left cheek.
Not one single feature from the man knocking on our front door.
And every single habit.
The way he rubs his forehead when he’s stressed. The way he hums when he cooks. The way he says buddy to every dog he meets. The way he laughs with his whole body, throwing his head back.
All Mike.
“You tell him the truth,” I said quietly. “Like you asked me to.”
I got up. I walked to the front door. I unlocked the deadbolt.
Mike came in with sawdust in his hair and a lunchbox in his hand. He was wearing his work boots and a faded Chiefs T-shirt.
He saw my face. He stopped.
Then he looked past me, into the kitchen. He saw Luke sitting at the table in his hoodie, with red eyes and a piece of paper in front of him.
Mike set down his lunchbox.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then he walked into the kitchen. He looked at the paper on the table. At the donor profile from the Midwest Reproductive Center. At the number he’d picked out of a binder at this same table nineteen years ago.
#4127.
