There is a rubbed wound in my soul that my experience of family life is misdefined, Anne Ventelä writes in the essay.
As usual on wednesday morning it happens again. I am with my two year old children at the playground. I greet the toddler we met and the adults accompanying him. We exchange a few words, the kids keep playing.
After a while we will meet at the swings. I give impetus to one of my children when an adult standing next to me asks the familiar question, “Do you have twins?”