When Daniel and I got back, I told him everything. He listened quietly, then sat staring at the floor for several seconds. Finally, he sighed.
"You've noticed it too."
I frowned.
"Noticed what?"
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"The resemblance."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I had spent years convincing myself I was imagining things. Hearing someone else acknowledge it made the room feel suddenly smaller.
"How long?" I asked.
Daniel hesitated.
"Years."
The answer hit harder than I expected.
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"You never said anything."
"I didn't want to hurt you."
"Hurt me how?"
He looked away before answering.
"What if something happened at the hospital?"
I laughed nervously, the sound unconvincing, even to me.
"That's impossible."
Daniel didn't respond, and somehow, his silence frightened me more than any answer could have.
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The next morning, I ordered a DNA test.
I told myself I was being paranoid, that I needed closure, that I was doing it so I could finally stop wondering.
