I never liked the number six.
Not from superstition, but because when I was little, a thin scar sat near my left wrist. My mother once told me I was born with six fingers. At three, surgeons removed the extra one, and the scar faded into memory. I had forgotten about it until that night in Texas.
Rain pounded the hospital roof as I rushed Emily, my wife, clutching her belly. The elevator failed during a lightning storm, so I carried her up six flights, my arms burning with every step. The obstetrics ward smelled of iodine and rain. Nurses hurried us in; Ly disappeared into Delivery Room 5.
As I buttoned the blue gown they gave me, I froze. A familiar face sat nearby.
“An?”
“John?”
It was Emily’s old lover, John, with his wife Julia, also in labor—Room 7. The past and present collided under the storm.
We sat on opposite benches, drinking lotus tea in silence, fathers waiting in fear. Then the lights went out, leaving only the red emergency lamp. When the generator sputtered back to life, cries burst from Room 5—my son was born. Minutes later, a baby’s wail came from Room 7.
When I first saw my boy through the glass, I nearly collapsed. His left hand bore an extra finger, pale and delicate as a petal. The nurse assured me it was common, easy to fix. But when she lifted another newborn—John’s daughter—the same anomaly marked her hand.
Something tightened in my chest. Was this coincidence? Or destiny mocking me?
Later, John found me smoking on the balcony. Quietly, he said, “My child too… six fingers. I had one as a kid as well. Do you?”
Wordless, I showed him my faint scar. His eyes carried the same mix of fear and wonder. That night, fate didn’t just deliver children—it unearthed buried truths.
Days later, John messaged me: “I want a DNA test. Not because I doubt Julia, but because I need to know. Will you do it with me?”
Five days of waiting felt endless. When the results came, my knees nearly gave out. Both children were confirmed with their rightful fathers. Relief washed over me—until I read the third line: “Genetic correlation suggests An and Hoang are half-brothers. 99% confidence.”
I handed the paper to John under a tree. He read it, then laughed breathlessly: “So… we’re brothers.”
That night, I placed the result in front of my father. His hands trembled. After a long silence, he admitted the truth: decades earlier, before marrying my mother, he had loved a woman in Texas- Harley, a teacher. He left without knowing she carried his child. That child was John.
When John and I told our parents, pain mixed with forgiveness. My father bowed his head to Lan, whispering, “I’m sorry.” She replied gently, “Youth passes like water. Today we meet again, and our children continue.”
Soon, the two families gathered at one table—chicken rice, boiled fish, morning glory greens. Our babies slept side by side, tiny hands clasped like commas. We laughed, traded stories, and chose names. By chance—or fate, we both chose Binh, meaning “peace.” Two Babies, one boy and one girl, born minutes apart, tied by bloodlines neither of us had known.
Eventually, the babies underwent simple surgery to remove the extra fingers. Beforehand, I kissed my son’s hand, almost grieving the little sprout that had brought us here. Ly asked if I regretted it. I shook my head. “No. I’ll keep the photos. That finger is part of our story.”
Years passed. Whenever I told my son about his birth, I spoke of rain in Hue, a broken elevator, and the first cry that split the night. Then I told him about the two babies with six fingers, about secrets adults try to bury, and about how life sometimes forces truth into the open.
One evening, rain returned to Texas. I looked across at John’s house, his lamp glowing. I texted: “Still awake, brother number two?”
His reply came quickly: “Yes. Brother number six.”
And suddenly, I no longer hated the number. Six was no longer a scar. It was a bridge — connecting past to present, turning strangers into brothers, and giving two children a story that would outlive us all.
