Chapter 3: Undercover Sister

Thinking it over, I logged out of my usual account.

I wasn’t about to jump into that mess with my real name, so I dug out an old burner phone from a desk drawer, dusted it off, and got ready to do some digital sleuthing.

Using a number from a prepaid SIM, I registered a new account called momo, and changed the avatar.

I picked the most generic profile pic I could find—a cartoon peach with sunglasses. The kind of account that could belong to anyone. I felt a little ridiculous, like some undercover detective in a sitcom.

Once registered, I went straight to the comments on his post.

I scrolled through the replies, half entertained, half horrified, and then typed my own response. The whole thing felt surreal, like I was trolling my own family for the world to see.

Me: "Don’t you have evidence? Take it to court and sue your mom for abandonment. Have your grandma back you up, and make your mom pay all the child support for these years."

I went full dramatic, figuring if he wanted a soap opera, I’d give him one. My fingers danced over the keyboard, and I hit send before I could second-guess myself.

Rare to see someone supporting him, my brother replied right away: "My grandma is over sixty, can’t even walk well, how could she go to court?"

He jumped on it like a dog with a bone, eager for any hint of validation. I could almost see him hunkered over his phone, desperate for backup.

I replied: "Then do this: first, do a DNA test with your mom. Take the result and sue her directly."

Might as well crank the drama up another notch. I imagined him googling how to get a DNA test, probably picturing some CSI episode. At this point, it was all theater.

My brother: "Dang, dude, you’re too smart. But what if my real mom insists we’re siblings? Our whole family must be related by blood—can that be tested?"

His desperation was almost palpable. The way he flipped the story around, desperate to cling to this fantasy—if I didn’t know him, I’d almost feel sorry.

Whether it could or not, I had no idea. I’d never done it or looked into it.

Honestly, all I knew about DNA tests came from Maury reruns and true crime podcasts. But hey, if he wanted drama, I could improvise with the best of them.

But I was planning to mess with him anyway, so I replied immediately:

"What’s the point of testing three people who are already related? Better go find your real dad."

I could practically hear the gasps from the onlookers, the keyboard warriors ready to stir the pot. The more wild suggestions, the better—the internet loves a good wild goose chase.

Other drama-loving onlookers saw my ridiculous suggestion—some didn’t get it, some loved the chaos, and they joined in:

[DNA tests are expensive, and you and your sister are already related by blood, so better to solve it at the root—go find your real dad.]

[When you find your real dad and get the DNA report, you can ask him for money too. Two birds, one stone. Then you won’t have to worry about your real mom only giving you $50.]

[There’s a guy in our town, his mom had him with a bleach-blond guy, bleach-blond bailed, and a couple years ago bleach-blond came back and is now the richest guy in Silver Hollow. Wild.]

By now, the thread had turned into a full-on circus, with strangers egging him on, each story more outrageous than the last. It was like a Twitter roast crossed with Jerry Springer.

As more and more people joined my thread, my brother’s replies got more frantic.

He was everywhere—replying, arguing, trying to keep up. I almost pitied him, but mostly I just watched, half fascinated, half annoyed.

He quickly opened a new post:

"How Can I Find My Real Dad?"