Every family tree has its dried-out branches. Some have naturally fallen, some we trim carefully, and others we pretend don’t exist until, for some reason, someone decides to water them with drama.

Society expects us to nurture and cherish these biological connections as if they’re always fruitful and overlook the fact that some of these branches see sharing chromosomes as a blessing to cling their sticky climbing vines and let them grow wild on our emotional real estate. 

The modern fixation on «biological truth» has turned parenthood into a strange time-share arrangement, where contributing DNA grants lifetime privileges, redeemable at one’s convenience.

The 34-year-old woman at the center of today’s thicket, contentedly living life with her chosen father, gets ambushed during Sunday lunch. Mom, apparently doubling as a family reunion coordinator, springs a surprise bio-dad stem, watering the long-fallen spur with voice notes and unauthorized wedding photos.