Where are we going, I say, my voice sounds rough. You have to stay with my mum, you say.
Petra Sitta, German Psychoanalytic Society (DPG); IPPF Freiburg At first, I thought it was all a misunderstanding. When the letter from the adoption agency arrived, I assumed it was advertising—or perhaps a letter sent to the wrong address. It took a great effort to grasp that it was, in fact, meant for me. Again and again, I had to read the words. “Dear Mrs. Misma, we are pleased to inform you that your twin sister has commissioned us to find you. Mrs. Goldberg lives in Los Angeles, California, and would be delighted to meet you in person. As our research shows, both of you were released for adoption after birth. Mrs. Goldberg’s family emigrated to America in 1944, while you were adopted by a German family.” I closed my eyes for a moment, then stared once more at the enclosed photographs of my twin sister. That’s me—only different, I thought in shock. The haircut was almost the same as mine, just a little more layered, with a cheeky short fringe in front. I should try that myself, I caught myself thinking. But the face—the mouth, the nose, the eyes—they all mirrored my own. It was like something out of a film, a hidden-camera prank waiting to be revealed. Any moment now the host would step out and explain the trick. With today’s technology, with AI, surely it was easy enough to alter my photos and make me believe I had a twin. The idea was too absurd to accept. And yet—and here I hesitated—hadn’t I, even as a child, often fantasized that I didn’t truly belong to this family? Everyone else was dark-haired, while I had golden curls. My parents had dismissed it, claiming I had inherited Grandma Erna’s hair. But still, I had never truly felt loved by my father, and even my mother seemed to keep something back, a secret reserve in her affection. Could it really be true—that I had been adopted, and, more astonishing still, that I had a twin sister? I was at a loss. I need to call someone who will know what to do, the thought shot through my mind. Reaching for the phone, I dialed the number of Sven— my childhood friend, now a successful lawyer in Frankfurt. Filiz Dogan, German Psychoanalytical Association; Karl Abraham Institute Berlin At first, I thought it was all a misunderstanding. I thought that she was closer to her sister than to me because she didn't want to hurt her younger sister, who always looked up to her. I had never really believed that blood was thicker than water, especially since I
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