“You’re asking for something unusual,” the consultant doctor said. “If you’ve got a twin, proving that the child isn’t yours but his is practically impossible.”
“Not child, children. And not his, but mine. Though he’s claiming at least one of them is his. Probably.”
The kindly old doc, who was clearly placed here for his knack with difficult clients, flashed another polite smile, revealing snow-white veneers. They stood out starkly against his aged, wrinkled face, which resembled a baked apple, and his faded eyes, dimmed by a long life. Those artificial, unnaturally white teeth were obviously meant to signal to clients that the staff here were vibrant and healthy. Plus, they could afford dental work that cost as much as a Boeing wing. All because their clients were completely satisfied with their services and paid them handsomely.
I flashed my own perfect, snow-white teeth in return. But judging by how the consultant gripped the edge of the desk to keep from recoiling, my attempt at a friendly grin came off more like a feral snarl.
And I had every reason to be pissed.
If you and your twin brother are all buddy-buddy, full of trust and camaraderie, I’m happy for you. Sort of. Because my situation is the exact opposite. My brother was born just a few minutes before me. So, first off, he considers himself the older one. And second, he’s hell-bent on stealing the family I’ve fought hard to build—a family that didn’t come to me as easily as everything seems to come to him. On top of that, he’s trying to pawn off his fiancée on me, someone our mother is desperate to see as her daughter-in-law. Someone I wouldn’t want anywhere near us, ever, under any circumstances.
And the kicker? He might actually pull it off. Because I gave him the opening myself, like an idiot, when I tried to build bridges and create some kind of family vibe in our little soccer duo. You see, rivalry in sports isn’t always a good thing. Especially when you’re forced to play on the same team. And we were—both in high school and college.
But that’s more info than this doc needs. So let’s start from the other end.
“Relax, Doc. Boris Leonidovich, I mean. I’m not a boxer. Just a mediocre soccer player. But even as a mediocre one, I know using my hands gets you a red card and a suspension. Plus, I’m a future journalist. A sports one, sure, but I’ve got enough skills and connections to either drag your lab through the mud or make it the talk of the town. Capisce?”
The doctor slid his glasses down to the tip of his nose and peered over them at my young, handsome, cocky face—a face that showed some smarts but definitely wasn’t nerdy.
And he decided to knock the arrogance out of this mouthy, morally questionable grandson of a politician. Big mistake. Because I’m not just any politician’s grandson—I’m the grandson of one whose committee is deeply concerned with public health issues, especially reproductive ones. But I’ll keep that ace up my sleeve for now.
Because it’d be best to sort this out quietly. Tanya’s already on edge with my mother constantly nitpicking at her. And the kids don’t need to grow up wondering which of these two identical uncles is their real dad.
“Let me explain everything to you, young man, uh…”
“Stas. Just Stas.”
“Alright. Stas, you’re correct that even identical twins aren’t always completely genetically identical.”
“There you go! So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that your genetic makeup, at the moment of conception, splits in half. There’s no guarantee that any differences are passed on. Or that they’re significant enough for a test to pick them up as a definitive marker. So, if you want to know what traits your children inherited and how much of that comes from you, no issue. But if this is a disputed matter, and your brother also gets tested, your argument won’t get genetic confirmation. You won’t figure out who’s on the hook for child support this way.”
“Nobody needs to pay anything. At first, he tried claiming he was me. Or vice versa. Now he’s threatening to say we both visited the mother of my children—without her knowledge or consent. And that the kids aren’t mine. Or he’ll find some other way to wreck my marriage.”
“And… did you… visit her?” the old man asked with sudden curiosity.
What am I supposed to say to that? No? Yes? Not in this case?
Or should I just keep my mouth shut?
“We visited, but not in this case,” I finally forced out, because lying here didn’t feel right.
The old man drilled me with a judgmental stare.
“The thing is, there are documented precedents for this,” he said in a professional tone, still studying my face as if hoping to spot fear or disappointment.
“Is that so?” I replied, keeping my expression blank.
“Though not here. Not long ago, there was a high-profile court case in Latin America. A woman accused two twin brothers of refusing to admit which one fathered her child. The investigation found that the twins had an agreement to pass themselves off as the same person. That way, they could date twice as many women.”
I froze, though I kept my poker face intact.
I knew it. I just knew Stepan didn’t come up with this on his own. He’s never been creative enough for that. But copying something and hammering away at it until he gets his way? That’s his specialty. No wonder he always waited for me to ask our parents for a toy or gift, then demanded the same thing or conned me out of mine. So he probably read about this somewhere and figured he could always pin an unwanted kid on me if push came to shove.
This is my fault. I shouldn’t have listened to him.
But he knows how to be persistent. And convincing. It all started that night after graduation, and then it snowballed. A whole year. Girls love soccer players. We even had a fan club.
Then I met Tanya. And I knew I wasn’t going to share her. But by then, it was a little late for regrets.
And after that, everything just spiraled…
“What are you thinking about, Mr. Stas?” the consultant asked, his voice tinged with faint disgust and a hefty dose of envy.
“I’m counting the kids I need to get tested. If you can find a difference in me that could serve as a marker.”
“And if that difference made it into the genetic makeup of the child—or children,” the doc intoned with a kind of reverent awe.
“What a boring life I’ve lived,” his faded eyes seemed to say. I barely stopped myself from suggesting he get colored contacts to look younger and make up for lost time. But a twin brother who hates his guts? That I can’t offer. You’ve got what you’ve got, and if you don’t, you can’t just pull it out of thin air.
Tanya loves both our little ones, so proud of them equally.
But my mother and brother? They see me as the extra, the imposter who was born outside their plans and desires. Just a failed copy of the firstborn—Stepan.
Though, considering how my mother, along with everyone else, mixes us up, there’s no telling how many times she got it wrong when we were kids. Or who’s really Stepan and who’s Stas.
Now I’ve got a tattoo so it’s clear I’m me. But I wouldn’t be surprised if my brother went to the same parlor and got the exact same one, just so I can’t dare to be my own person and know my place.
My therapist called it codependency rooted in hatred.
Will my kids grow up the same way because of their genes? If so, I might as well jump off a bridge.
Am I doomed to spend my whole life counting days and hours, trying to prove they’re mine and not my brother’s?