“Hello,” Leah said, when invited to leave a message. “I just received the results of my DNA test at YourHeritage.com, and the findings are perplexing. Please call me back as soon as you receive this. Thank you.”

Back when Leah had set up her account at YourHeritage in preparation to submit her sample, the site had given her a solemn warning about how upsetting the conclusions of DNA testing could be. She’d checked the box to acknowledge that, yes, she understood and was willing to accept the results.

At the time, she hadn’t had an iota of concern.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed a call to the customer service phone number provided in her email from YourHeritage.

An agent named Heather politely and patiently assured her that the site stood by the outcome of her test.

Leah could only imagine the calls Heather must receive: “You got my mother right, but that man isn’t my father!” “She’s my half sister? I always thought she was my cousin!”

If Leah had concerns about the test’s validity, Heather suggested that Leah take a retest, which Leah was most certainly willing to do once she’d discussed this with her mom.

After disconnecting, she stood immobile, her ballet flats planted on a flagstone paver. Stalwart trees encircled her.

The story of her conception was well-known to her and somewhat south of disappointing. Her mom and dad had fallen in love while attending Georgia State. Mom had become pregnant the summer before her senior year. Even though Mom had dreamed since childhood of traveling around the globe, she’d instead settled down, married Dad, and had Leah.

Why would a young woman who longed for independence and adventure adopt a child at the age of twenty-two? After nine months of pregnancy? Leah had seen the photos that documented her mother’s pregnancy.

Had Mom been pregnant and lost the baby tragically?

Then gone on to adopt her? And kept her adoption a secret?

If something bizarre like that had occurred, why would Mom have given her a DNA kit as a gift, knowing what Leah would discover?

Was the DNA kit Mom’s warped way of revealing to Leah that she’d been adopted?

That sort of subterfuge sounded nothing like Erica Everly Montgomery, her mother. Mom said things outright—unafraid of what people thought, uncowed by confrontation.

Leah hadn’t been adopted, surely.

And yet . . . It was true that she’d never had a great deal in common with the rest of her immediate family. Her father, mother, and brother had brown hair and brown eyes. All three were more athletic than she was, messier than she was, grumpier than she was. None of them were interested in academics, the joy of Leah’s life.