“How dare you dig into things that don’t concern you!” she shrieked, her voice cracking with a raw, ugly anger I had never heard from her before. “You have no right to come into this house and ruin our lives! Leave it alone!”

Before I could say a word, she slammed the phone down. I stood there in the kitchen, staring at the gold birthday card. The anger in my mother’s voice didn’t make sense. If my father had cheated, why was she screaming at me?

I knew I couldn’t leave it alone. I logged back into the DNA website and searched for Patrice’s profile. She had linked a public social media account to her results. Within five minutes, I found her address in Oregon, Ohio, just twenty-two miles away.

I grabbed my car keys, ran out to my Buick, and started driving. The rain was slapping against the windshield, and the heaters in my car were blowing cold air, but I didn’t care. I felt completely numb.

When I pulled up to the address, I saw a modest blue house with a small front porch. There was a single yellow light burning beside the door. I walked up the steps, my heart hammering against my ribs, and knocked.

When the door opened, the words caught in my throat. A woman stood there, looking at me with wide, startled eyes. It was like looking into a mirror that had been aged slightly differently.

She had the same sharp nose, the same pointed chin, and the exact same tiny brown birthmark resting right above her left eyebrow. We stood there in the doorway, staring at each other in dead silence.

“You’re Ellen, aren’t you?” she whispered. Her voice was softer than mine, but the cadence was identical.

I could only nod. She stepped aside and let me into her warm hallway, which smelled of cinnamon.

She walked over to a small wooden table, picked up a creased, faded Polaroid photo from 1974, and held it out to me with a trembling hand. “I’ve had this my whole life,” she said. “My mother gave it to me before she died.”