I’d spent much of last night at the beach, staring into the darkness, the gentle lapping of the waves the only noise I needed, as my brain was a hive of noise and chaos. Under the moon’s white-gold tunnel, I’d walked through my grandma’s garden, past the gazebo, the pond with the lily pads and the bridge. I sat on her colorful benches and saw two deer and hid in the secret garden room where a six-foot statue of a fairy watched over the perfectly trimmed boxwood and maple trees.

I could not find peace.

My reality of my own life was not mine. My truth was not my truth.

I had called the DNA company. I had talked to a very nice woman there. She explained how the tests were done, how the tubes were handled, how “many people find surprises in their DNA.” DNA did not lie. There were no mistakes.

“Jules and I received our information back from the DNA company.”

My mother dropped her delicate purple rose teacup. It clattered to her saucer and broke. I stood right up to help her, as did Jules and Sundance. My mother didn’t move as we picked up the shards of china and wiped up the tea. She stared straight ahead, stricken. Aunt Camellia and Aunt Iris, always helpful, did nothing to help us, either. They had frozen, exactly as our mother had, their faces worried. Resigned. Guilty. And, overall, pained.

We sat back down again, at the table where my grandpa used to pluck feathers out of chickens, Sundance at my feet. I tried to get my emotions under control. It is not every day you find out you are not related to your parents and you are not related to your sister when you thought you were. In fact, there is a whole other family out there who says you belong to them. “When I first received the DNA information I thought there was a mistake.” I took a deep breath. “There was no mistake.”

I stopped as my mother’s eyes filled.

“Mom? Please, Mom.”

She leaned back in her chair, her body crumpling, her eyes shutting, as Aunt Camellia put her arm around her.

“DNA doesn’t talk about love,” Aunt Camellia said, her voice wavering. “And that’s what we have here.”

I felt a bit faint.

“Too much information can, statistically speaking, cause problems,” Aunt Iris said, but it was weak.

Beside me, Jules twitched.

“Mom, Jules and I, according to this DNA site, are not sisters. We’re not related at all.”

My mother opened her eyes, then started to cry, her face in her hands. My mother so rarely cries.

“You are not my biological mother and Dad is not my biological father, are you?”

Her shoulders shook.