I’ve been the focus of far too much attention in my time. Pass me over, move along please, nothing to see here.
I don’t often look in the mirror, as a rule. This has absolutely nothing to do with my scars.
It is because of the unsettling gene mix that looks back at me. I see far too much of Mummy’s face there.
I cannot distinguish any of my father’s features, because I have never met him and, to the best of my knowledge, no photographic records exist.
Mummy almost never mentioned him, and on the rare occasions when he came up, she referred to him only as “the gametes donor.”
Once I’d looked up this term in her New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary
(from the Greek γαμἐτηϛ, “husband”—did this juvenile etymological adventuring spark my love of classics?),
I spent several years wondering about this strange set of circumstances.
Even at that tender age, I understood that assisted conception was the antithesis of careless, spontaneous or unplanned parenthood,
that it was the most deliberate of decisions, undertaken only by women who were serious and dedicated in their quest to be mothers.
I simply could not believe, given the evidence and my own experience,
that Mummy had ever been such a woman, could ever have wished for a child so intensely.
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