“Mom, he’s my brother!”

Those were the words that changed everything. But before that moment, I thought my life was perfect—at least, that’s what everyone said.

I’m Ashton Harris, son of millionaire entrepreneur Alfonso Harris and his elegant wife, Penelope. Our mansion in San Francisco overlooked the bay, our

 cars sparkled under sunlight, and every year, my father threw lavish birthday parties that felt more like business events than celebrations.

That Sunday afternoon, the party was in full swing—string lights, champagne glasses, and polite laughter from people who didn’t mean what they said. I slipped away from the noise, heading toward the gate for some air.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy—around my age, maybe fourteen—standing by the fence. His hair was the same shade of brown as mine, his blue eyes wide and sharp. But his clothes were filthy, his face smeared with dirt. He looked… familiar. Unsettlingly familiar.

Our eyes met, and I froze. It was like staring into a mirror—only this reflection looked like it had suffered.

“Who are you?” I asked softly.

“Luke,” he said after a pause, voice wary, almost fearful.

I told him my name. For a moment, he studied me, then reached out his hand hesitantly. When I shook it, a strange warmth spread through me—like I’d known him forever.

But before I could say more, I heard my mother’s voice behind me. “Ashton! What are you doing out here?”

I turned around, startled, and when I looked back—Luke was gone.

That night, my mother had one of her nightmares again. She called out in her sleep, trembling, muttering words I couldn’t understand. When I leaned closer, I heard her whisper, “Two babies… two cries…”

It made no sense. But I noticed the way she held me tighter that night, as if afraid of losing something.

The next day, I told my best friend Hazel about the boy. She didn’t laugh or call me crazy. She just said, “You need to find him again, Ash. Maybe it’s not a coincidence.”

And she was right.

Later that week, with her driver Theodore reluctantly helping us search, we found him again—behind a diner downtown, digging through trash for food.

When Luke looked up and saw me, time seemed to stop. Hazel gasped softly beside me.

“Ashton,” she whispered. “He’s not just some boy. He looks exactly like you.”

And in that instant, I knew this was only the beginning of something far bigger than any of us imagined.

Luke looked terrified when we approached him. His hands trembled as he clutched a torn paper bag filled with scraps of bread.

“Don’t be scared,” I said gently. “We just want to talk.”

He looked at me suspiciously, then at Hazel. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured. “People don’t like talking to me.”

“Maybe those people are wrong,” Hazel said softly.

We sat with him behind the diner. Luke told us bits and pieces of his life—how he had grown up on the streets, taken in by kind strangers who later died, leaving him alone again. He didn’t know who his parents were or where he came from.

When he lifted his shirt to scratch his side, Hazel’s sharp eyes caught something—a small, crescent-shaped birthmark near his stomach. My breath caught in my throat. I had the exact same mark.

“Luke,” I said quietly, “do you remember anything from when you were little? Any hospital, any name?”

He shook his head. “Just… I remember someone crying. A woman’s voice. Then nothing.”

Hazel gasped. “Ashton… what if—”

I didn’t let her finish. The thought had already hit me like lightning.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My mother’s words echoed again in my head: “Two babies… two cries…” I had to know the truth.

The next morning, I brought Luke home. Hazel came with us for support. Luke hesitated at the mansion gate, staring at the marble steps and manicured garden like it was another planet.

“Just trust me,” I whispered.

When my mother saw him, the color drained from her face. Her hands shook violently as she reached out to touch his cheek.

“No…” she whispered. “It can’t be.”

Luke flinched, stepping back. “Do you know me?”

Her voice broke. “My son,” she breathed. “My baby… I knew I heard two cries that night.”

Tears spilled down her face as she pulled him into her arms. Luke froze at first, then began to sob, years of pain pouring out all at once.

That was when my father entered the hallway. His expression turned from confusion to horror. “What is this?” he barked.

When he saw Luke’s face—my face—his body stiffened. “Penelope, explain this!”

My mother turned toward him, shaking. “Explain?” she shouted. “You tell me, Alfonso! Where is my son? What did you do?”

The air thickened. My father’s jaw clenched, his eyes darting toward the stairs—then toward his sister, Aunt Michelle, who had just walked in.

And in that tense silence, I realized the truth was about to come out—and nothing would ever be the same again.

The air in our mansion was heavy with silence. My mother’s tears fell freely, while Luke stood frozen beside her, uncertain if he was dreaming or trapped in a nightmare.

My father, Alfonso, adjusted his tie, trying to regain control of the moment. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “Penelope, that boy could be anyone. He’s probably trying to scam us.”

But Hazel, ever sharp, stepped forward. “Then let’s find out,” she said. “A DNA test doesn’t lie.”

My father’s expression faltered for the first time. His sister, Aunt Michelle, wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. That’s when I noticed her trembling hands.

“Michelle,” my mother said coldly. “You were there the day I gave birth. Tell me the truth.”

Michelle’s lips quivered. “I… I can’t.”

“You will!” my mother shouted, voice echoing through the hall.

Finally, Michelle broke down. “It was Alfonso,” she whispered. “He… he sold one of the twins. He said it was the only way to pay off his debts.”

My heart stopped. My mother’s scream pierced the air.

Michelle went on, her voice trembling. “He made a deal with a doctor. They told you that one baby didn’t survive, but he took the child and sold him. I—I didn’t know they’d abandon him. I thought the boy would live with another family.”

Luke’s knees buckled. Hazel caught him before he fell. My mother lunged at my father, hitting his chest with her fists as she sobbed. “You sold my child! You stole my son’s life!”

Alfonso didn’t fight back. He only whispered, “I did it for us.”

“For us?” she cried. “You built your empire on our child’s tears!”

Hazel took out her phone and called the police before anyone could stop her. The moment the sirens wailed outside, my father knew it was over.

That night, Alfonso and Michelle were taken away in handcuffs. Reporters swarmed our house for days. My mother stayed strong, shielding Luke and me from the chaos. The DNA test confirmed it—we were twins, separated since birth.

Months passed. Our lives changed completely. My mother sold the mansion and moved us into a smaller home by the bay. Luke went to school with me, still shy but learning to smile again. He struggled at first, but Mom’s love healed him more than therapy ever could.