We have been completely inseparable our entire lives.
We grew up in the same HOUSE in the Chicago suburbs, shared bedrooms, got married around the same time, had our children, and stood shoulder-to-shoulder holding hands when we buried our parents.
I never in a million years imagined that, at our age, we could uncover a secret so deeply horrifying that it would make us question absolutely everything we had ever known about our lives, our family, and our own identities.
It all started on a perfectly ordinary Sunday afternoon last October.
The three of us were sitting at a little café downtown, having lunch and splitting a bottle of Chardonnay, when Susan suddenly suggested taking a mail-in DNA test.
“Wouldn’t it be interesting to find out where our ancestors actually came from?” she said, laughing and pulling up the 23andMe website on her phone.
“Maybe we’re Irish royalty.
Or maybe we have some long-lost rich cousin somewhere.”
