We weren’t always twins. We used to be just one person.The story of our conception was the ordinary kind they tell youabout in biology lessons. You know how it goes: an athletic spermhits the egg target and new life forms.So there we were, a single ho-hum baby in the making. Thencomes the extraordinary part, because that one egg split, tearingin half, and we became
babies. Two halves of a whole. That’swhy it’s weird but true – we were one person ﬁrst, even if only fora millisecond.Mummy always said that having twins was the last thing she’dexpected, except she knew there had to be a good reason why shecouldn’t ﬁt through doors at four months, let alone do her jeansup. Mummy was beautiful. Everyone said so. She looked like anice queen from the pages of a fairy tale. A queen who wore ﬂip-ﬂops and Indian skirts with tassels dangling down, and whoseﬁngers were stained nicotine yellow. She wouldn’t tell us who ourfather was. Not that it really mattered. We just pretended it did,because it felt exciting to try and guess who he might be, as if wecould invent the story of our own birth.
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