She nodded. “She told me during one of our walks.
She didn’t want to come to you without proof. She knew you’d be… upset.”
“Proof?” I asked. “What proof?”
Mom hesitated.
“This is the part you’ll hate,” she said. “She… took a strand of your hair. From your hairbrush.
One day when you’d come over and left it on the counter.”
I stared at her.
“She took my hair,” I said slowly, “without asking, and used it for a DNA test?”
Mom winced. “She knows it was wrong,” she said quickly. “She told me she regretted it.
But she wanted to be sure before she made any claims.”
“And?” I asked. “What did the test say?”
“It said you’re half sisters,” Mom whispered. “She showed me the results.
Twice. She did two tests to be certain.”
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