Like Sisters<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part One: The House Next Door<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My name is Sarah Lindell. I\u2019m thirty-two years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I never expected the happiest chapter of my life to lead to a medical appointment that would leave me terrified for my unborn child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I never expected that appointment to answer a question I didn\u2019t even know I\u2019d been asking my whole life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My best friend, Emily Carver, is thirty-one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We\u2019ve been inseparable for twenty-five years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We grew up in neighboring houses on Sycamore Lane in Westbrook, Ohio. A small town east of Columbus with one high school, one Dairy Queen, and a water tower painted like a giant baseball.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My house was yellow with white shutters. Hers was blue with a red door. There was a gap in the hedge between our backyards that our fathers never fixed, because by the time they noticed it, we\u2019d worn a dirt path through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We met when I was seven and she was six.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was sitting on her back steps crying because her goldfish had died. I came through the hedge with a shoebox and a garden trowel and said, \u201cWe should have a funeral.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We buried him under her mother\u2019s rose bush. I said a prayer. She sang \u201cTwinkle, Twinkle, Little Star\u201d because it was the only song she knew all the words to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After that, we were never apart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We attended the same schools. Westbrook Elementary, Westbrook Middle, Westbrook High.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We shared countless adventures. Building forts in the woods behind the Methodist church. Sneaking into the community pool after closing. Driving to Columbus at sixteen to see a concert we\u2019d lied to our parents about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We supported each other through our first crushes, our first kisses, our first heartbreaks. When Tommy Reinhart dumped me at the junior prom, Emily poured a cup of red punch down the back of his tuxedo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Emily\u2019s father had his heart attack our senior year, I slept on her bedroom floor for two weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our mothers frequently joked that we behaved more like sisters than best friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLook at you two,\u201d my mother, Marie, would say. Watching us lie on the trampoline in the backyard, finishing each other\u2019s sentences. \u201cPeas in a pod.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSame nose,\u201d Emily\u2019s mother, Barbara, would say. Laughing. \u201cSame stubborn chin. Are you sure the hospital didn\u2019t mix them up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They\u2019d laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then sometimes they\u2019d look at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And stop laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I never thought anything of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Two: The Dream<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For as long as I can remember, Emily and I shared one particular dream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We wanted to become mothers. And watch our children grow up together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We planned it when we were ten. Lying in a tent in my backyard with flashlights.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We\u2019d live next door to each other. Our kids would cut through a hedge. They\u2019d have a dirt path. They\u2019d bury goldfish together and pour punch on boys who were mean to them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPinky swear,\u201d Emily said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPinky swear,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Unfortunately, life didn\u2019t unfold the way we\u2019d imagined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I married a man named Kevin when I was twenty-four. He was charming and funny and sold medical devices. We bought a little house in Columbus. We tried to have a baby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two years later, I found out he\u2019d been having an affair with a woman from his office.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My marriage ended five years ago. It left me heartbroken and uncertain about my future. I moved back to Westbrook. I rented a small house three blocks from Sycamore Lane.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m a pediatric nurse at the children\u2019s hospital in Columbus. I take care of other people\u2019s babies all day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily never married.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She had several serious relationships. A teacher. A firefighter. A sweet, quiet man named Paul she dated for four years, who left because he didn\u2019t want children.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019s a librarian at the Westbrook Public Library. The children\u2019s section. She does story time on Tuesday and Thursday mornings with a puppet named Mr. Biscuit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By the time we reached our thirties, we\u2019d both grown tired of waiting for the right partners.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Three: The Idea<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, one evening, Emily suggested something completely unexpected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a Friday night in October. We were sitting on my back porch with a bottle of wine and a bag of Doritos. It was cold. We had blankets over our legs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We\u2019d been talking about babies. Again. Like always.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah,\u201d Emily said. \u201cWhat if our children weren\u2019t simply childhood friends?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She leaned forward. She had that look. The one she used to get when she wanted to sneak into the community pool.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat if they actually shared the same biological father?\u201d she said. \u201cThey could be brother and sister. Or two sisters. Or two brothers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She grinned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cReal siblings,\u201d she said. \u201cNot just like siblings.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At first, I thought she was joking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Emily had already considered the possibilities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She\u2019d been researching for months. She pulled out her phone and showed me. Fertility clinics in Columbus. Sperm banks. Donor profiles. Success rates. Costs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We could both become mothers through fertility treatment, she said. Using sperm from the same donor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our children would share a biological connection. Half-siblings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And we could raise them together. Next door. Just like we\u2019d always hoped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEmily,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLike, really crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she said. \u201cBut think about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The idea was unconventional.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But it gradually began to make sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Four: Daniel<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After months of consultations, medical examinations, and careful discussions, we chose a fertility clinic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Columbus Reproductive Health Center. A big modern building on the north side of the city with glass walls and a fountain in the lobby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They worked with a sperm bank called Heritage Cryobank. One of the oldest in Ohio. Founded in 1981.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We spent three weekends at Emily\u2019s kitchen table, scrolling through donor profiles on her laptop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Height. Weight. Eye color. Hair color. Education. Medical history. A short essay from each donor about why he\u2019d decided to donate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We selected a donor named Daniel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That wasn\u2019t his real name. The bank used first names only. Donor #4471, \u201cDaniel.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
According to the profile, he was thirty-five. Six feet tall. Brown hair, hazel eyes. A PhD in biochemistry. He\u2019d donated in graduate school, in 2014.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He\u2019d passed every required medical screening. Genetic carrier testing for cystic fibrosis, spinal muscular atrophy, Tay-Sachs, and two hundred other conditions. All negative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His essay was what sold us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was raised by a single mother, he wrote. I never knew my father. She told me he was a good man who couldn\u2019t be there. I\u2019m donating because I want to help people build families. Families come in all shapes. Mine was just me and my mom. And it was enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe sounds kind,\u201d Emily said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe sounds like us,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We completed the procedures in January.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Both of us. Same week. Same clinic. Same doctor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then we waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Five: Two Pink Lines<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then something wonderful happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I became pregnant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I found out on a Tuesday morning in February. I took the test in my bathroom at six a.m. before my shift at the hospital. I sat on the edge of the tub and stared at those two pink lines until my alarm went off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I called Emily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She screamed so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three weeks later, Emily discovered she was expecting too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She showed up at my front door at eleven o\u2019clock at night in her pajamas. Holding the test in her hand. Crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We stood in my doorway hugging for ten minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were overwhelmed with happiness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We bought tiny baby clothes. A matching pair of onesies that said BEST FRIENDS and BEFORE WE WERE BORN.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We compared ultrasound pictures. We had our appointments on the same days, back to back, so we could go together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We discussed names. Hundreds of names. We made lists on the refrigerator.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We imagined our children celebrating birthdays together. Cutting through a hedge. Burying goldfish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the first time in years, everything seemed to be falling into place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Six: The Call<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But during the fifth month of our pregnancies, our excitement turned into fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At twenty weeks, the clinic recommended an expanded genetic screening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s a newer test. More detailed than the standard ones. They draw your blood and look at the baby\u2019s DNA floating in it. It can find chromosomal problems and some genetic conditions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It can also show things you weren\u2019t looking for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We both had our blood drawn on the same day. In early June.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two weeks later, one morning, the genetics clinic called.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was at work. On the pediatric floor. Changing an IV bag for a four-year-old with pneumonia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My phone buzzed in my scrub pocket. I didn\u2019t recognize the number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I answered in the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah Lindell?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis is Rachel. I\u2019m a nurse with the Genetics Center at Ohio State. Dr. Harrison needs to speak with you and Emily Carver as soon as possible.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Something in her voice immediately worried me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019ve been a nurse for ten years. I know that voice. I\u2019ve used that voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs there a problem with our babies?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rachel hesitated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPlease come to the clinic,\u201d she said. \u201cThe doctor will explain everything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cToday,\u201d she said. \u201cIf you can. Three o\u2019clock.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called Emily immediately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was at the library. In the middle of story time. I could hear the kids singing in the background.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEm,\u201d I said. \u201cWe need to go to the genetics clinic. Today. At three.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was a long pause.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBoth of us?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBoth of us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Seven: Dr. Harrison<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither of us said much during the drive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Forty minutes from Westbrook to Columbus. I drove. Emily sat in the passenger seat with both hands on her belly, looking out the window at the cornfields.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At one point, she reached over and took my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t let go until we parked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Genetics Center is on the fourth floor of a medical building at Ohio State. A quiet waiting room with soft chairs and a fish tank and framed pictures of DNA helixes on the walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rachel came to get us. She took us down a long hallway to a corner office.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When we entered Dr. Harrison\u2019s office, he was studying two genetic reports.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They were displayed side by side on two computer monitors on his desk. Columns of numbers and letters and colored bars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was in his sixties. Gray hair. Wire glasses. A kind face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t greet us with his usual reassuring smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Instead, he examined the results again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he got up, walked past us, and slowly closed the office door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He sat back down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at both of us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBefore we discuss these findings,\u201d he said, \u201cI need to confirm something.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily gripped my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is it, Doctor?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you absolutely certain,\u201d Dr. Harrison said, \u201cthat the same sperm donor was used for both pregnancies?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d we answered together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDonor 4471,\u201d I said. \u201cDaniel. From Heritage Cryobank.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at the screens once more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His expression grew increasingly serious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe genetic similarities between your babies,\u201d he said, \u201care not entirely what we expected.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt my heartbeat quicken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut they share the same biological father,\u201d Emily said. \u201cWouldn\u2019t that explain the similarities?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt would explain some of them,\u201d Dr. Harrison said carefully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pointed at the screens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHalf-siblings share about twenty-five percent of their DNA,\u201d he said. \u201cThat\u2019s what we\u2019d expect between your babies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThese two fetuses,\u201d he said, \u201cshare closer to thirty-seven percent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the numbers on the screen. I didn\u2019t understand them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I understood the look on his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThese preliminary findings,\u201d Dr. Harrison said, \u201csuggest there may be another biological connection we haven\u2019t accounted for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I instinctively placed my hands over my stomach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDoctor, please tell us,\u201d I said. \u201cAre our babies sick?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at me. Then at Emily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe haven\u2019t established that either child has a medical condition,\u201d he said. \u201cFurther testing is necessary.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He paused before continuing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve worked in this field for twenty-seven years,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve rarely encountered a situation like this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He folded his hands on the desk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf these results are confirmed,\u201d he said, \u201cthere is something extremely important you both need to understand. About your children\u2019s biological relationships. And possible medical risks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily\u2019s hand tightened around mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen tell us,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Harrison took a slow breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFirst,\u201d he said, \u201cI need to ask you both a question about your families.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat question?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked directly into my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah,\u201d he said. \u201cEmily.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you absolutely certain,\u201d he said, \u201cthat the two of you aren\u2019t biologically related?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Eight: The Question<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For several seconds, neither of us could speak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Are you absolutely certain the two of you aren\u2019t biologically related?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at Emily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Same nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Same stubborn chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Are you sure the hospital didn\u2019t mix them up?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s\u2014\u201d Emily started. \u201cThat\u2019s impossible. We\u2019re not related. We met when I was six. Over a dead goldfish.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOur parents are completely different people,\u201d I said. \u201cMy dad was Swedish. From Minnesota. Her dad\u2019s family is Irish. From Boston.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Harrison nodded slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI understand,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I\u2019m not saying you are. I\u2019m saying the numbers suggest it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pointed to a colored bar on one of the screens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf two mothers are unrelated,\u201d he said, \u201cand they use the same donor, their babies share about twenty-five percent of their DNA. Through the father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pointed to another number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf the two mothers are themselves half-sisters,\u201d he said, \u201cthe babies would share more. About thirty-seven percent. Through the father and through the mothers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what these numbers show,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHalf-sisters,\u201d I repeated.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s something else,\u201d Dr. Harrison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Nine: Runs of Homozygosity<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pulled up a different screen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A long graph. Colored bars. Some of them highlighted in red.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThese are called runs of homozygosity,\u201d he said. \u201cLong stretches of DNA where a baby inherited the exact same sequence from both parents.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pointed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEvery person has a few,\u201d he said. \u201cShort ones. It\u2019s normal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pointed at the red bars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThese are long,\u201d he said. \u201cLonger than we\u2019d expect from two unrelated parents.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at both of us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBoth of your babies show this pattern,\u201d he said. \u201cTo a similar degree.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d I asked. My voice was barely a whisper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Harrison took off his glasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt means,\u201d he said carefully, \u201cthat in addition to the two of you possibly being related to each other, there may also be a biological relationship between each of you and the donor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The room went completely silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBetween us,\u201d Emily said slowly, \u201cand Daniel.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Dr. Harrison said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat kind of relationship?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was quiet for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe pattern is consistent,\u201d he said, \u201cwith the mother and the donor being half-siblings.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not possible,\u201d Emily said. \u201cWe don\u2019t know him. We don\u2019t even know his real name. He\u2019s an anonymous donor from a sperm bank.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d Dr. Harrison said gently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He put his glasses back on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s why I asked about your families,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Ten: The Risks<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He explained the risks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Slowly. Carefully. The way I explain things to frightened parents at the hospital.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When two parents are closely related, he said, their child has a higher chance of inheriting two copies of the same rare recessive gene. One from each parent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Most of the time, that\u2019s harmless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes, it causes a genetic condition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor children of unrelated parents,\u201d Dr. Harrison said, \u201cthe background risk of a serious birth defect or genetic disorder is about three to four percent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor children of half-siblings,\u201d he said, \u201cit\u2019s higher. Studies vary. Maybe six to nine percent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo there\u2019s a ninety percent chance they\u2019re fine,\u201d Emily said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRoughly,\u201d Dr. Harrison said. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut I can\u2019t tell you which group your baby is in,\u201d he said. \u201cNot yet. Not without more testing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He recommended an amniocentesis. For both of us. And whole-exome sequencing. A test that looks at every gene in the baby\u2019s DNA.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It would take three weeks to get the results.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He also recommended something else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou need to talk to your mothers,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Eleven: The Drive Home<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We sat in my car in the parking garage for an hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither of us said anything for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then Emily laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A strange, broken laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSame nose,\u201d she said. \u201cSame stubborn chin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She put her face in her hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOur mothers used to joke about it,\u201d she said. \u201cEvery single week.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd then they\u2019d stop laughing,\u201d I said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou noticed that too?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEvery time,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat if it\u2019s true?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked out the windshield at the concrete wall of the parking garage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen we\u2019ve been sisters for twenty-five years,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd didn\u2019t know it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily reached over and took my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe always knew it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twelve: Two Mothers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We went to see our mothers that night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother, Marie, still lives in the yellow house on Sycamore Lane. She\u2019s sixty-five. My dad, Erik, died of a stroke six years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily\u2019s mother, Barbara, still lives in the blue house next door. She\u2019s sixty-four. Emily\u2019s dad, Mike, is sixty-seven. Retired from the post office. Still alive. Still fixing things in his garage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We knocked on my mother\u2019s door at seven o\u2019clock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She opened it in her apron. She\u2019d been baking. She saw our faces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stopped smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom,\u201d I said. \u201cCan you call Barbara? We need to talk to both of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother looked at me for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she looked at Emily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then she took off her apron.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll call her,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Barbara came through the hedge. The same gap our fathers never fixed. The same dirt path Emily and I wore down when we were little.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She came into my mother\u2019s kitchen. She sat down at the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The two of them sat side by side. Two women in their sixties who\u2019d been next-door neighbors for thirty-two years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I set the genetics reports on the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDr. Harrison asked us a question today,\u201d I said. \u201cAt the genetics clinic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My voice was shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe asked if Emily and I are biologically related,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother put her hand over her mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Barbara closed her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither of them said That\u2019s ridiculous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither of them said Of course not.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They looked at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Thirteen: 1993<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was Barbara who spoke first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour father couldn\u2019t have children,\u201d she said to Emily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily stared at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMike had the mumps,\u201d Barbara said. \u201cWhen he was nineteen. It made him sterile. We didn\u2019t find out until we\u2019d been trying for three years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at her hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe was so ashamed,\u201d she said. \u201cHe made me promise never to tell anyone. Not his family. Not you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then my mother spoke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour father had a low sperm count,\u201d she said to me. \u201cAlmost none. The doctors said we\u2019d never conceive naturally.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cErik was devastated,\u201d she said. \u201cHe was so proud. He made me swear the same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo we went to a fertility clinic,\u201d Barbara said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIn Columbus,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They looked at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDr. Gerald Whitcomb,\u201d Barbara said quietly. \u201cThe Whitcomb Fertility Clinic. On High Street.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe was the best,\u201d my mother said. \u201cEverybody said so. He\u2019d helped hundreds of women.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe told us he used donor sperm from medical students,\u201d Barbara said. \u201cAnonymous. Screened. Healthy. Young men from Ohio State.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe said the donors were matched to our husbands,\u201d my mother said. \u201cSame coloring. Same build. So no one would ever know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI went in March of 1993,\u201d Barbara said. \u201cEmily was born in December.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI went in April of 1992,\u201d my mother said. \u201cSarah was born in January of 1993.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily and I looked at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe didn\u2019t know,\u201d my mother said. \u201cWe didn\u2019t know about each other.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at Barbara.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe\u2019d just moved here,\u201d she said. \u201cErik got a job at the Honda plant in Marysville. We bought the yellow house in 1992.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe moved in next door in 1993,\u201d Barbara said. \u201cMike got transferred to the Westbrook post office.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt was years before we figured it out,\u201d Barbara said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Fourteen: The Hedge<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother was quiet for a long moment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou and Emily,\u201d she said. \u201cWhen you were eight and seven. You were playing in the backyard. Running through the sprinkler.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She smiled sadly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou both had the same birthmark,\u201d she said. \u201cA little brown spot behind your left knee. The exact same shape. Like a little bean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at Emily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have that birthmark. Behind my left knee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily has it too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We used to call them our twin beans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI mentioned it to Barbara,\u201d my mother said. \u201cLaughing. Over the hedge. I said, Look, they even have the same birthmark.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at Barbara.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd Barbara got very quiet,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat night,\u201d Barbara said, \u201cI came through the hedge. After the girls were asleep. I knocked on Marie\u2019s back door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at my mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI asked her if she\u2019d ever been to Dr. Whitcomb,\u201d Barbara said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI almost fainted,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe sat at this kitchen table until two in the morning,\u201d Barbara said. \u201cWith a bottle of wine. Figuring it out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDr. Whitcomb told both of us we were getting sperm from a medical student,\u201d she said. \u201cBoth of us. The same year. And our daughters had the same birthmark and the same nose and the same chin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe didn\u2019t know for sure,\u201d my mother said. \u201cThere were no DNA tests back then. Not like now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut we knew,\u201d Barbara said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell us?\u201d Emily asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her voice was shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The two women looked at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause of your fathers,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey never knew about each other,\u201d Barbara said. \u201cErik didn\u2019t know Mike had been to Dr. Whitcomb. Mike didn\u2019t know about Erik.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd they\u2019d made us promise,\u201d my mother said. \u201cNever to tell anyone. Ever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd because of you two,\u201d Barbara said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at Emily and me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou loved each other so much,\u201d she said. \u201cYou were so happy. Running through that hedge. Burying goldfish. Pinky swearing in tents.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wiped her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe didn\u2019t want to take that away,\u201d she said. \u201cWe didn\u2019t want to make it complicated. We thought, What difference does it make? They\u2019re already sisters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo we kept the secret,\u201d my mother said. \u201cFor twenty-four years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Fifteen: The Donor<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom,\u201d I said. \u201cThere\u2019s more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I told them about the runs of homozygosity. The red bars on Dr. Harrison\u2019s screen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The pattern that suggested each of us was also related to the donor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother went white.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDaniel,\u201d she said. \u201cThe donor\u2019s name is Daniel?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what the bank calls him,\u201d I said. \u201cDonor 4471. He\u2019s thirty-five. A biochemist. He was raised by a single mother. He never knew his father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Barbara put both hands flat on the kitchen table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHeritage Cryobank,\u201d she said. \u201cIn Columbus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d Emily said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Barbara looked at my mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMarie,\u201d she said. \u201cWhen was Heritage founded?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pulled out my phone. I looked it up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Heritage Cryobank. Founded 1981 by Dr. Gerald Whitcomb, M.D.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The kitchen went silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Sixteen: The Most Shocking Discovery<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It took six weeks to confirm everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily and I both did a DNA test. One of those home kits. Spit in a tube. Mail it in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We took the tests the same night. At my kitchen table. With the genetics reports and a box of Kleenex.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The results came back on a Thursday in August.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Same day. Ten minutes apart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the top of my DNA Relatives list, there was one name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily Carver. Predicted relationship: Half-sister. Shared DNA: 24.8%.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the top of Emily\u2019s list, my name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah Lindell. Half-sister.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And below that, on both of our lists, there were more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So many more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Jennifer Mattox. Half-sibling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Brian Okafor. Half-sibling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Laura Delancey. Half-sibling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Matthew Pruitt. Half-sibling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Forty-three of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Forty-three half-siblings. Born between 1979 and 1997. Most of them in Ohio. All of them conceived at the Whitcomb Fertility Clinic on High Street in Columbus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All of them sharing about twenty-five percent of their DNA with each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And one more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daniel Whitcomb. Half-sibling. Shared DNA: 25.3%.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Seventeen: Daniel Whitcomb<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His name was Daniel Whitcomb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was thirty-five. A research biochemist at a pharmaceutical company in Indianapolis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was Dr. Gerald Whitcomb\u2019s son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not his legitimate son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Whitcomb had been married for forty years. He had three children with his wife. Daniel wasn\u2019t one of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daniel\u2019s mother was a nurse who\u2019d worked at the Whitcomb Fertility Clinic in the late 1980s. A single woman who wanted a baby. Dr. Whitcomb offered to help her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She never knew the truth either. She thought she was getting donor sperm from a medical student.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She raised Daniel alone. In Dayton. She told him his father was a good man who couldn\u2019t be there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In 2014, when Daniel was a graduate student at Ohio State, he needed money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His mother had cancer. Her insurance didn\u2019t cover everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He saw a flyer on a bulletin board in the chemistry building. Earn up to $1,500\/month. Become a sperm donor. Heritage Cryobank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t know who founded Heritage Cryobank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t know that the man who ran it was his biological father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t know that Dr. Gerald Whitcomb, by then seventy years old and semi-retired, still sat on the board and still reviewed the donor profiles personally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t know that his biological father had looked at his application, read his name, seen his mother\u2019s name on the medical history, and approved him anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Eighteen: The Letter<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We found out about the last part from Daniel himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He reached out to us in September. Through the DNA website.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A short message.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah and Emily,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I just found out I have forty-three half-siblings. And that two of them used my donated sperm to conceive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know what to say. I\u2019m so sorry. I didn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d like to meet you. If you\u2019re willing. I understand if you\u2019re not.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014 Daniel<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We met him at a coffee shop in Columbus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a rainy Saturday afternoon. Both of us, seven months pregnant, waddling through the door with umbrellas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was sitting at a table in the corner. Tall. Brown hair. Hazel eyes. Wire glasses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood up when he saw us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I knew him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not his face. I\u2019d never seen it before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But his nose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And his stubborn chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily grabbed my arm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh my God,\u201d she whispered. \u201cSarah. He looks like us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was crying before we even sat down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d Daniel said. \u201cI\u2019m so, so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not your fault,\u201d Emily said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt feels like my fault,\u201d Daniel said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He told us everything he\u2019d learned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About his mother. About Dayton. About the flyer on the bulletin board.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About the investigative reporter from the Columbus Dispatch who\u2019d called him two weeks earlier. Who\u2019d been researching Dr. Whitcomb for a year, ever since another half-sibling filed a lawsuit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe did it at least forty-four times,\u201d Daniel said. \u201cProbably more. Used his own sperm instead of donor sperm. For eighteen years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd then he ran a sperm bank,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd let his own son donate to it. Knowing that his son had forty-three half-siblings in central Ohio.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at our bellies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe knew this could happen,\u201d Daniel said quietly. \u201cAnd he didn\u2019t care.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Nineteen: The Results<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The amniocentesis results came back in late August.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three weeks of waiting. Three weeks of not sleeping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Harrison called us both into his office. Same day. Same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was smiling this time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI have good news,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He pulled up the reports on his two monitors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe sequenced every gene in both babies,\u201d he said. \u201cWe looked for every recessive condition we know how to look for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe didn\u2019t find anything,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily started crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I started crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Harrison handed us a box of tissues.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI need to be honest with you,\u201d he said. \u201cThis doesn\u2019t guarantee they\u2019ll be completely healthy. There are things we can\u2019t test for. The risk is still a little higher than average.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He leaned forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut both of your babies,\u201d he said, \u201clook perfectly healthy. Every test. Every scan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He paused.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour daughter, Sarah,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd your son, Emily.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We\u2019d decided not to find out the sex. We\u2019d wanted it to be a surprise.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Harrison realized what he\u2019d said. He looked horrified.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh no,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry. Did you not\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily laughed so hard she had to hold her belly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA boy,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m having a boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd I\u2019m having a girl,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We looked at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA brother and a sister,\u201d Emily said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCousins,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHalf-siblings,\u201d Emily said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We started laughing. We couldn\u2019t stop. Two pregnant women in a genetics office at Ohio State, laughing until we cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Harrison just sat there, smiling, handing us tissues.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty: Our Fathers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was one more thing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily\u2019s father, Mike, was still alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sixty-seven. Retired from the post office. Fixing lawnmowers in his garage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He still didn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Barbara told him in September. After the DNA results came back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She sat him down in their kitchen. She told him everything. About Dr. Whitcomb. About the forty-three half-siblings. About Daniel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About Marie and Erik next door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily told me what happened next.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her father didn\u2019t say anything for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he got up from the table. He walked out the back door. Across the yard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To the hedge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood at the gap in the hedge. The one he and my father never fixed. The one Emily and I wore a dirt path through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood there for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Looking at my mother\u2019s yellow house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he walked through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He knocked on my mother\u2019s back door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother opened it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMarie,\u201d Mike said. \u201cDid Erik know?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother shook her head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she said. \u201cHe never knew about you. And you never knew about him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mike stood on her back porch for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThirty years,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cErik and I mowed our lawns side by side every Saturday for thirty years. We shared a snowblower. We watched Buckeye games together.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He swallowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd neither of us ever said a word,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe was ashamed,\u201d my mother said. \u201cLike you were.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mike looked at the hedge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe should\u2019ve fixed that hedge,\u201d he said. \u201cErik and I always said we would.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGlad we never did,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty-One: The Lawsuit<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Gerald Whitcomb was eighty-one years old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He lived in a big house in Upper Arlington. He still sat on the board of Heritage Cryobank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Columbus Dispatch published the story in October.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fertility Doctor Fathered at Least 44 Children Through Fraud, Investigation Finds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Front page. Above the fold. With a photograph of Dr. Whitcomb in a white coat from 1987.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Forty-four half-siblings joined the lawsuit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily and I were two of them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daniel was another.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our mothers joined too. Marie and Barbara. Along with thirty-one other women who\u2019d gone to the Whitcomb Fertility Clinic between 1979 and 1997.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the time, Ohio had no law making fertility fraud a crime.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was no statute. Nothing that said a doctor couldn\u2019t use his own sperm without consent. Nobody had imagined a doctor would do it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So the lawsuit was civil. Fraud. Medical battery. Intentional infliction of emotional distress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The case settled out of court in March. For an undisclosed amount.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Heritage Cryobank closed in April.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In June, the Ohio legislature passed a bill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Fertility Fraud Act. Making it a felony for a doctor to use his own reproductive material without a patient\u2019s written consent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother and Barbara drove to Columbus to watch the governor sign it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They stood side by side in the back of the room in the Statehouse. Holding hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty-Two: Hope and Erik<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My daughter was born on October 3rd.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Seven pounds, one ounce. Dark hair. A little brown birthmark behind her left knee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Shaped like a bean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily\u2019s son was born on October 24th.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eight pounds, four ounces. Dark hair. Hazel eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A little brown birthmark behind his left knee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I named my daughter Hope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily named her son Erik.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After my father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour dad taught me to ride a bike,\u201d Emily said, when I asked her why. \u201cOn Sycamore Lane. He ran behind me holding the seat for three blocks. And when I wobbled, he said, Keep going, kiddo. I\u2019ve got you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked down at her son.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHe was my dad too,\u201d she said. \u201cIn every way that mattered. I just didn\u2019t know it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty-Three: Uncle Dan<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daniel came to the hospital.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Both times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood in the doorway of my room at Riverside Methodist, holding a stuffed giraffe. He didn\u2019t come in. He just stood there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I see her?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I held Hope up so he could see.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at her for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At her nose. Her stubborn chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s beautiful,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCome here,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He came in. He sat in the chair beside my bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put Hope in his arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He held her like she was made of glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He started crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know what I\u2019m supposed to be to her,\u201d he said. \u201cHer father? Her uncle? Her half-uncle? Her\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere isn\u2019t a word for what I am,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought about it for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow about Uncle Dan?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daniel looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe has a mom,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd an Aunt Emily. And a cousin who\u2019s also her brother. And a grandma and a Grandma Barbara next door. And a Grandpa Mike.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe could use an Uncle Dan,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daniel looked down at the baby in his arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUncle Dan,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He smiled through his tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can do that,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty-Four: Sycamore Lane<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily and I live on Sycamore Lane now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The house across the street from my mother\u2019s yellow house came up for sale in the spring. A little brick ranch. Emily bought it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The house across the street from Barbara\u2019s blue house came up for sale in the summer. A white Cape Cod. I bought it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So now there are four of us. Four houses. Two on each side of the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother and Barbara, side by side. With the hedge between them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily and me, side by side. With a new hedge between us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mike planted it last fall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A row of boxwoods. Small. Neat. Between our two front yards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He left a gap in the middle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor the kids,\u201d he said. When Emily asked him why. \u201cSo they can wear a path through it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked across the street at the old hedge between his house and my mother\u2019s. At the dirt path Emily and I wore down when we were seven and six.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cErik and I always said we\u2019d fix that gap,\u201d he said. \u201cWe never did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m not making that mistake twice,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty-Five: Forty-Three<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We met the others in June.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All forty-three half-siblings. And Daniel. And their families.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At a park in Columbus. On a hot Saturday afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was the strangest, most wonderful day of my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Forty-four people who\u2019d never met each other. Walking across the grass toward each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With the same nose. The same stubborn chin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The same little brown birthmark behind the left knee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A woman named Jennifer Mattox, from Cincinnati, saw Emily and me and stopped in her tracks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She pulled up the leg of her capris.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The bean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then a man named Brian Okafor, from Toledo. Then a woman named Laura Delancey, from Akron.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All of them pulling up pant legs and skirts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
All of them laughing and crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By the end of the afternoon, forty-four people were sitting on picnic blankets in a park in Columbus, comparing birthmarks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our mothers came too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marie and Barbara. Sitting side by side in lawn chairs in the shade. Watching their daughters and their grandchildren and forty-two other people who shared their daughters\u2019 faces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At one point, Barbara leaned over to my mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSame nose,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSame stubborn chin,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And this time, they didn\u2019t stop laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty-Six: What We Learned<\/p>\n\n\n\n
People ask us sometimes how we feel about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About Dr. Whitcomb. About the fraud. About finding out we\u2019re half-sisters after twenty-five years of being best friends.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About having babies with our own half-brother\u2019s sperm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They expect us to be angry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes we are.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Whitcomb took something from forty-four families. He took their right to know. Their right to choose. Their right to the truth about where they came from.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took it from our mothers, who spent twenty-four years carrying a secret they shouldn\u2019t have had to carry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took it from our fathers, who mowed their lawns side by side for thirty years and never knew they were sharing the same shame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took it from Daniel, who grew up believing his father was a good man who couldn\u2019t be there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He never apologized. Not once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He died in January. Of a stroke. At eighty-two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
None of us went to the funeral.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But here\u2019s the other thing we\u2019ve learned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily and I chose each other. When we were seven and six. Over a dead goldfish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We didn\u2019t know we were sisters. We didn\u2019t know we shared a father. We didn\u2019t know about the birthmarks or the noses or the stubborn chins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We just knew we belonged together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
DNA didn\u2019t make us sisters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It just told us what we already knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Part Twenty-Seven: The Path<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s October again now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hope and Erik turned one this month. Three weeks apart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We had a joint birthday party. In the backyard of the yellow house on Sycamore Lane. My mother\u2019s house. Where it all started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everyone came.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother and Barbara and Mike. Daniel and his girlfriend, a sweet nurse named Priya. Jennifer Mattox from Cincinnati, with her twins. Brian Okafor from Toledo. A dozen other half-siblings and their kids.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fifty people in my mother\u2019s backyard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hope and Erik sat side by side in matching high chairs. Wearing matching onesies that said BEST FRIENDS and BEFORE WE WERE BORN.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They had a cake. One cake. Shaped like a goldfish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily\u2019s idea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hope put both hands in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Erik put his face in it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everybody laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Later, after the cake and the presents and the singing, Emily and I sat on my mother\u2019s back porch steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The same steps where I sat at seven years old, with a shoebox and a garden trowel, looking through the hedge at a little girl crying over a goldfish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We watched our babies on a blanket in the grass. Hope was trying to crawl. Erik was eating a leaf.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Daniel was lying on his back next to them, letting them climb on his chest. Uncle Dan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSarah,\u201d Emily said. \u201cCan I tell you something?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAlways.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhen Dr. Harrison asked us that question,\u201d Emily said. \u201cAre you absolutely certain you aren\u2019t biologically related?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI remember,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI was terrified,\u201d Emily said. \u201cFor the babies. For us.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut part of me,\u201d she said, \u201ca tiny part, was thinking, Please say yes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMe too,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She held out her pinky finger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPinky swear,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAbout what?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily looked out at the yard. At Hope and Erik on the blanket. At the old hedge between my mother\u2019s house and hers. At the dirt path we wore down twenty-five years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Still there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat they\u2019ll know,\u201d she said. \u201cFrom the very beginning. Who they are. Where they came from. All of it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo secrets,\u201d she said. \u201cNot one. Not ever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hooked my pinky around hers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPinky swear,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Out on the blanket, Hope finally figured out how to crawl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She crawled straight across the grass. Past Uncle Dan. Past Grandma Barbara\u2019s lawn chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Toward the hedge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Toward the gap.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Emily and I watched her go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither of us got up to stop her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some paths you\u2019re meant to find on your own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Even if you\u2019ve been walking them your whole life.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Like Sisters Part One: The House Next Door My name is Sarah Lindell. I\u2019m thirty-two years old. I never expected the happiest chapter of my life to… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":173,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8841","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8841","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8841"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8841\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8842,"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8841\/revisions\/8842"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/173"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8841"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8841"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bzerbros.fun\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8841"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}