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I believe that deep in my memory I hold this image of my mother behind the glass, sending me a kiss and looking at me as if I were the most precious and beautiful baby in the world. Although these circumstance of my birth are factual, it’s difficult for me to imagine the scenes: being talked about in the maternity ward; being different, feared but pitied, classified as deformed. But this look, this look of love -this gift- I can easily imagine, because I would know it for the rest of my life.

I remember that day so clearly that I can see the city stretching out in front of me, looking beautiful and at the same time looking nothing like I had expected or even wanted. It was a sight to behold, but I had hoped it would look different: like a slow accordion should be played over the French scene; a golden hue over everything, lovers walking along the river, sweet perfume filling the air. But the city I saw, the City of Lights -this dream- was nothing like I had imagined, sadly it was only ordinary.

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