I made hot chocolate before breaking the news—because when you’re about to upend a child’s world, you put something warm in their hands. Daniel sat rigid, Sasha tense, while I knelt between Mia and Sophie. “There’s something important you need to know,” I said. Daniel spoke first. “Mia, I’ve always been your dad. But I’m not your biological father.”
Sasha added, “I was engaged to Daniel’s brother, Evan. You girls were born twins. He wanted to give one of you up. I couldn’t. Daniel raised Mia, I kept Sophie.” The girls stared at each other—two mirrors realizing they weren’t reflections. Tears came, then laughter, then a hug so fierce it unclenched something in me. Later, Mia turned on Daniel. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve known her my whole life.”
He didn’t make excuses. “I was wrong. I’m sorry.” The months that followed were messy and ordinary—therapy, shared dinners, new routines. Sophie called me “Lo,” Mia started calling Sasha “Sash.” Daniel rebuilt trust slowly, through honesty. On their tenth birthday, they blew out candles together in the park, curls tangled, overalls matching.
That night Mia slipped her hand into mine. “Do I have to pick whose house to go to?” “No,” I said. “You get both.” She grinned. “Good. We’re twins. We contain multitudes.”
