‘I hate you.’
That was always my first thought when she spoke to me – my geneticist, Dr Agatha. My hate piqued not when my mum drove me to her appointments or when I stepped into her office, but when words emerged from her mouth.
‘Emil,’ she continued, ‘if your mum and I both stepped on these scales we would weigh the same as you.’ She stood atop the scales in her office. I eyed those scales with dread. At 14 scales embodied my fears. I still don’t like them.
I couldn’t look at them any longer. I turned my attention to the other side of the room, bypassing her qualifications hanging on the wall and the ugly painting of a field.
These appointments were always so negative. I tried especially hard today to pretend I was too sick to come but it wasn’t enough. My mum saw through my…
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