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Do you remember when I  wrote about sending away a DNA test? Well, the results finally arrived. I woke up this morning with this odd feeling—like today was the day. The day I'd find out if I'm truly the last of my line or if somewhere out there, I have unknown relatives I've never met.

I took the dogs for a walk down to the mailbox around noon, and sure enough, there it was. Now, I'm sitting on the couch, staring at the unopened envelope in front of me. I can't bring myself to open it yet. It feels almost alive, like it's taunting me. The answers are right there, but I'm hesitating, caught in this limbo of wanting to know and being afraid of what I might find.

---

It's evening now, and the envelope's still sitting there. I've picked it up a dozen times, turned it over in my hands, but I haven't opened it. I don't know why I'm making such a big deal out of this. Maybe it's the fear of the unknown, the weight of whatever those answers might bring.

I ended up talking to Ted about it earlier. We were out by the stables after finishing with the horses, and I guess he could see I wasn't quite myself. He asked me what was on my mind, and before I even knew what I was doing, I told him.

Ted, in his usual blunt but reassuring way, said, "You've carried the weight of this place on your shoulders for years, Jewel. You've faced droughts, storms, losses, and everything in between. Whatever's in that envelope, you'll handle it just the same. You've got grit, kid. Don't forget that."

It's funny how someone else's words can cut through all the noise in your head. Ted's right—I've handled tough things before, and I'll handle this too. Still, it doesn't make the finding out any easier.

---

I couldn't sleep last night. I kept tossing and turning, my mind racing with possibilities. What if it says I'm completely alone? What if it says I'm not? The dogs must've sensed my unease because Jazzy hopped up onto the bed to comfort me. Sweet thing, but it didn't help.

So, here I am again. It's the middle of the night, and I'm back on the couch, staring at the envelope. The world is quiet, and I've decided—it's time. I've been waiting for these results for what feels like forever. There's no better time than now. Maybe once I open it, I'll finally get some sleep.

It's done. I opened it. My hands are still shaking, and I'm not even sure I can put into words how I feel right now.

It's strange how something so small, so seemingly simple, can completely upend the way you see the world. I opened the envelope slowly, almost afraid of what I'd find inside. The dogs watched me from their spots on the floor, their eyes half-closed but still quietly attentive, like they knew this was something important.

The first thing I saw was my maternal lineage. I don't know why, but I held my breath as I read the names, each one carrying a weight I couldn't quite explain. James and Mabel Quinn. Great-grandparents I never knew existed. And then the next names—Robert and Lydia Quinn. My grandparents. My mother's parents.

I froze there for a moment, staring at the paper. My mother never once mentioned her family—not a word about James, Mabel, Robert, or Lydia. I don't know why that hit me so hard, but it did. My mother was always so full of stories about this ranch, about her life here with my father, but she'd kept an entire branch of our family hidden. Why?

But it didn't stop there.

The next name stopped my heart cold. Taylor Quinn—Aunt. My mother had a sister. A whole aunt I never knew about. And below her name: Avril Quinn—Cousin. And below that: Alex Quinn.

Alex.

I had to reread it three times before it sank in. Alex, as in the Alex working here on the ranch. The same Alex I see every day, brushing down horses, hauling feed, and walking this land like it's a part of him. Alex, who has only been here a few months but already feels like he belongs here more than most. My cousin.

I don't even know how to process it. My head feels like it's spinning, and my chest is so tight I can barely breathe. It feels surreal, almost impossible, but there it is—written out in black and white. He's part of my family. My mother's family.


---

What does this mean for me? For him? Does Alex even know? He's been so reserved since he arrived, keeping to himself, only telling us the barest details about his past. I remember he once mentioned Kalbarri Horse Haven, but he never talked about family. Did he grow up knowing about me? About this ranch? Or has he been searching for connection in the same way I have, without even knowing how close he already was?

And then there's the bigger question: why didn't my mother tell me any of this?

Was it something she was ashamed of? Something painful she didn't want to revisit? Or did she think she was protecting me by keeping me in the dark? I've spent so many years wishing for family, for someone who could share this life with me, and now... here it is, dropped in my lap, and I have no idea what to do with it.

---

The dogs are asleep now, stretched out on the floor beside the couch, completely oblivious to the whirlwind in my mind. I envy them for it. For the way they live in the moment, unburdened by questions or choices.

But I can't stay in limbo forever. I'll have to decide what to do with this information, how to tell Alex. If he doesn't already know, I can't imagine what this will feel like for him. How do you tell someone that the life they've been building intersects with your own in ways neither of you expected? How do you tell someone they're family?

I think I need time. Just a little bit, to wrap my head around all of this. And yet, I know I can't keep this to myself for long. Alex deserves to know. Whatever comes of it, I owe him that much.

---

Somehow I ended up falling asleep on the couch after awhile. I guess my body and mind were ready for me to rest. Now im awake but exhausted, I can see the light through the curtains. Guess its morning. Work still needs to be done so I might as well get started...

I made it through the morning somehow, though I can't say I was entirely present. The chores were the same as always—feeding the horses, checking the water troughs, running a quick perimeter of the paddocks to make sure the fences held. But everything felt heavier today, like I was moving through a dream I couldn't wake up from.

The dogs, bless them, stayed close by, their easy companionship a small comfort. I don't know what I'd do without them some days. Boomer got into the feed again (he's too smart for his own good), and I had to shoo him out of the barn before he made himself sick. It gave me something to focus on for a moment, a small reprieve from the thoughts that wouldn't stop circling in my head.

---

I finally crossed paths with Alex around mid-morning. He was out in the south paddock, working with Murphy again. That horse has given everyone else nothing but trouble, but Alex has this way with him—quiet, steady, almost instinctive. It's something I've noticed about him since the day he arrived, the way he moves like he belongs here. Like the ranch recognizes him, even if he doesn't recognize it.

I kept my distance, though. I wasn't ready to talk to him yet, not with this storm still raging in my mind. I watched him for a moment, leaning against the fence and letting the weight of it all settle over me again. How do you look at someone and not see them differently when you know something like this?

I'm not sure if he noticed me, but if he did, he didn't say anything. Maybe that's for the best.

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur of routine—lunch with the staff, more fence mending, running through inventory with Grace. Normal things, familiar things. But none of it felt real. My mind kept drifting back to the DNA results, to the names printed so neatly on that paper, to the way they seemed to rewrite my entire understanding of my family.

I keep coming back to the same questions:

Did Alex know?

If he didn't, how will he feel when I tell him?

And why did my mother keep all of this hidden?


It feels like there's a part of the story I'm missing, something just out of reach. Did my mother and Taylor have a falling out? Or was it something deeper, something she thought she had to protect me from? I wish I could ask her. I wish I could sit across from her with that piece of paper in my hand and hear her side of it. But that's a door I can never open again, and the ache of it feels sharper than ever today.

---

Ted found me out by the barn in the late afternoon. He's always had a way of knowing when something's on my mind, like he can see the storm before it even starts brewing. He didn't ask any direct questions this time, just handed me a cup of tea and said, "Whatever it is, you'll figure it out. You always do."

I wish I shared his confidence.

---

I think I need to write this down, just to make it feel real: Alex is my cousin.

He's my family, my mother's family. That connection I've been searching for, that missing piece I've carried all these years—it's him. He's been here this whole time, walking this land, working beside me, and I had no idea.

It feels like a gift, but it also feels fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it. What if he doesn't want this? What if it's too much, too soon? He's been so careful about opening up, so guarded about his past. I don't want to push him away, but I also can't keep this to myself forever. He deserves to know.

---

Evening's settling in now, and the ranch is quiet. The dogs are curled up by the fire, their breathing soft and steady. I'm sitting here with the DNA results tucked inside the cover of my journal.

I keep thinking about my mother, about the stories she used to tell me when I was little. She always talked about the importance of family, about how Southern Lights wasn't just a ranch—it was a legacy, something built on love and sacrifice.

And yet, she kept this part of her life hidden. Why? Did she think it would change the way I saw her? Or was it something else—something she couldn't bear to share?

I'll never know for sure, and that's a truth I'll have to live with. But what I do know is this: I have a chance to reconnect with a piece of my family, a chance to bring something whole out of what's been broken.

I owe it to Alex to share what I've learned. I owe it to Southern Lights to honor the legacy my family built, even if it means facing some uncomfortable truths.

I'm not sure when I'll tell him—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. But I will.

For now, I'll let the quiet settle around me, let the stars come out over the paddocks, and hold onto the hope that this is the beginning of something good.

I confided in Ted today. I seem to be doing that alot lately. He's been my rock for as long as I can remember, always there with a steady word or a bit of wisdom when I need it most. I told him about the DNA results—about Alex—and as usual, he just listened, calm and patient, like he always does.

I asked him what I should do. I know I have to tell Alex—I owe him that much—but I'm at a complete loss for how to start. How do you even bring something like this up? "Hey, Alex, I know we've been working together for months, but surprise, we're family!" It feels impossible.

Ted didn't give me an answer outright. He never does. But he said something that stuck with me: "It's easier to talk when you're moving."

At first, I wasn't sure what he meant. Then he suggested I take Alex on a ride. Out to the back pastures, or maybe the sanctuary. Somewhere quiet, somewhere meaningful. A place where it feels natural to talk without the weight of the station pressing down on us.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Ted's right—Alex is careful with his words, and I don't want to corner him. A ride feels simple, unassuming. It's just the kind of space where I can start to explain everything, piece by piece, without overwhelming him.

---

I've decided I'll take Alex out tomorrow. I'll ask him to ride with me, frame it as checking on the pastures or scouting the creek. We'll head to the sanctuary—that spot by the river where the world always seems to slow down.

I've never brought anyone there before. It's always been my place, the one spot where I can think clearly, where I can feel the weight of Southern Lights lift just a little. But if I'm going to tell Alex the truth, it feels like the right place to do it.

It's strange, though. Even with this plan in mind, I still feel this gnawing fear in my chest. What if he doesn't want this? What if he doesn't see Southern Lights the way I do? What if I lose him, even before I've had the chance to know him as family?

---

Ted said something else today that I keep turning over in my mind. "Family isn't about being perfect," he told me. "It's about showing up, being honest, and figuring out the rest as you go."

I don't know if I'm ready to believe him yet. I've always thought of family as something solid, something certain. But maybe it's more like the land—messy and unpredictable, but worth holding onto all the same.

Tomorrow's the day. I'll take Alex out, and I'll tell him the truth. I don't know how he'll react, but I owe it to both of us to take this step. One step at a time, like Dad used to say.

I took Alex out for a ride today. I had been holding onto the truth for days, turning it over in my mind again and again, wondering how he would react, wondering if I could even say the words aloud.

Ted's advice came back to me: "It's easier to talk when you're moving." He was right. The ride gave us space to breathe, to settle into the rhythm of the land, and that gave me the courage I needed.

When we reached the sanctuary, I finally asked Alex about his family. I don't know why it surprised me to hear how much he'd been through—how disconnected he felt, how little he knew about his roots. I guess I'd hoped he already knew something, anything, about where he came from. But he didn't.

He talked about his mum not being around, about moving from place to place, and how Kalbarri was the closest thing to a home he'd ever had. My heart broke for him in that moment, even more than it already had. He sounded like someone who had been searching for a place to belong his entire life.

And then, when I asked him about his future, he said something I'll carry with me: "I like it here. Southern Lights feels different." He didn't elaborate, but those words said more than enough.

That was when I knew I couldn't wait any longer. I had to tell him.

---

Handing him the DNA results was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Watching him read those names—James, Mabel, Robert, Lydia, Taylor, Avril—I could see every emotion flash across his face: confusion, disbelief, shock.

When I told him we were cousins, he just stared at me, like he couldn't quite make sense of it. He said he had no idea, that his mom never talked about family. And in that moment, I saw so much of myself in him—lost, searching, holding onto fragments of a story we didn't even know we were part of.

---

We sat in silence for a while after that, letting it all sink in. I tried to explain as much as I could about what I'd found, but the truth is, I don't have all the answers either. I'm still trying to make sense of why my mother kept this from me, why his mom kept it from him.

But there was one thing I had to make sure he understood: that he isn't alone anymore.

I don't know how much of that sank in for him. He admitted it was a lot to process—and it is. For both of us. But when he looked at me and said, "Thank you for telling me," I knew I'd made the right decision.

---

I can't stop thinking about what this means—for him, for me, for Southern Lights. I've spent so many years feeling like I was carrying this legacy alone, trying to protect it, to honor my family. And now, suddenly, there's someone else.

Alex is family. My family.

I don't know where we go from here, or what role he wants to play in all of this. But I'm willing to give him the time and space to figure it out.

For now, I just feel... lighter. Like I've taken the first step in a long journey.

It's been a few days since the ride, and I'm still untangling all the emotions swirling around in my head. Relief. Hope. A lingering ache for all the years lost. But mostly, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time: possibility.

I won't pretend that everything has settled neatly into place. Alex hasn't said much since I told him, and I can tell he's still processing what it all means. Honestly, I don't blame him. It's not every day someone hands you a piece of your family you didn't even know was missing.

But even in his quiet moments, I've noticed a shift. He lingers a little longer at the paddock fences, watching the horses with that thoughtful look of his. He asks more questions—not about the ranch itself, but about the people who built it. About Emily and Luther, about Mary and Jonathan. About my parents. About what it means to be part of Southern Lights.

It's subtle, but it's there. A curiosity, maybe even a spark.

---

Ted told me once that Southern Lights has a way of choosing its people. He said the land has a soul, and if you listen closely, you'll feel it call to you. I used to think that was just one of his old-time sayings, something to romanticize the hard work of ranch life. But now, I'm not so sure.

Alex might not realize it yet, but I think this place is calling to him. And if he chooses to answer, I know he'll find something here—something he didn't even know he was searching for.

---

As for me, I feel like I'm finally starting to let go of the idea that I have to do this alone. For so long, I've carried the weight of this legacy, trying to honor my family's memory by holding onto every piece of it myself. But now, for the first time, I can see a different way forward.

If Alex decides to stay—if he decides he wants to be part of this—I think there's a place for him here. Not just as a worker or even as family, but as someone who can help carry this legacy into the future.

It won't happen overnight. I know that. He has his own journey to walk, and I need to give him the time and space to figure out what he wants. But the idea that Southern Lights could be something we share—that it could belong to both of us—it's a hope I didn't realize I'd been holding onto until now.

---

The sun is setting now, casting long shadows over the paddocks. The dogs are curled up at my feet, and the air is quiet, save for the faint rustle of the trees in the breeze.

I don't know what the future holds, for me or for Alex. But for the first time in a long time, the unknown doesn't feel so heavy.

Whatever comes next, I think we'll figure it out together.

It's been months since the revelation, and life at Southern Lights has settled into a new rhythm. Alex decided to stay—he's now a permanent part of the station and the family. When we first talked, I told him that nothing had to change if he didn't want it to. I didn't want him to feel like I was pushing responsibility onto his shoulders before he was ready. It's a lot to take on, especially for someone his age.

I remember being his age when I took over the station after my parents and grandparents. It wasn't easy—lots of trial and error, mistakes made, lessons learned the hard way. But I wasn't alone. I had people who cared about me, cared about this place, and helped me through it all. That's what it'll be like for Alex, too. He doesn't have to do it alone.

Because if I've learned anything over the years, it's that family doesn't just mean blood. It's the people who show up, who stick around, who put their heart into the same things you do. And Alex? He's done all of that and more.

I've seen him grow so much since the day he first showed up, this guarded young man who kept everyone at arm's length. He's not that same person anymore. These days, he lets his guard down more often, showing glimpses of the person he's becoming. He still doesn't talk much—no long, drawn-out conversations—but he's opening up in his own way.

I see it in the way he interacts with the crew, how he's learning to trust them and let them in. I see it in the way he handles the horses, with patience and understanding that goes beyond his years. He's stepping up, little by little, finding his place here.

The rest of the crew knows now that we're related. It came out naturally, over a shared meal at the homestead one night. There were a few surprised looks, a couple of jokes, but in the end, it didn't change much. Because, like I said, family isn't just about blood. It's about showing up, about putting in the work, about being part of something bigger than yourself.

And that's what Southern Lights is. It's a family, a legacy, a home. And now, it's Alex's home, too.

I don't know what the future holds—none of us do. But for now, I'm at peace knowing that the station will carry on, cared for by the next generation. And maybe, just maybe, I'll get to see Alex grow into the kind of man who can lead this place with the same heart and dedication that's kept it alive all these years.

Time will tell. But for now, we're here. We're family. And that's enough.