Wolfgang laughs, looking down into their cupped hands. “Well, I don't look like most of them. But I don't know, you can see it a bit, the same nose or eyes. It's not creepy. I don't know. It just make me think how cool genetics are. I have a picture —” They dig into their coat pocket, producing a smart phone (it's new, they built it themself, very proud of it —) and swiping through until they get to an old Facebook account. It's not private, so they don't have to log in to look at the old pictures.
“See, that's my dad,” they say, tilting the phone towards Michael. The man in the picture is middle-aged and balding, stout and soft in the way of someone who isn't sedentary but never really works out either. He's in a suit that he's not wearing well, giving the impression of lower-middle-class. Wolfgang slides their thumb. “And that's my mum.” A short, middle-aged, fair-skinned woman with purple hair and a nose ring. She's wearing a Ramones shirt. Well then.
There are some aspects that are clearly the same — the shape of the eyes is common across the board, and Wolfgang has the same square face as their mother, the same nose as their father. But an average person looking at them wouldn't guess they were related. Wolfgang thinks it's mostly hair; people were less confused when they were a brunette.
“That's Tehila. She's older.” And yes, nearly identical. Tall, blonde, same nose and lips, slightly different face shape, though Tehila is built like a brick house and Wolfgang, about fifteen or sixteen there, is gangly and awkward, caught mid-turning their head away from the camera and making a face.