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An anomaly, I stick out like a sore thumb yet blend into the background as if I wasn't even there. From all (all?) appearances I am another, normal—what is normal?—student, rushing around campus. Look closer. You might see the well worn wedding ring on my finger, the darker circles under my eyes. In my bag, with the notebook and pens are a Mr. Men book and a baby's hat. Behind the pram, I don't even register as a person amongst students who all assume they wouldn't know anyone with a child, although we may sit next to each other in lectures the next day. The same age—give or take a year or two in some cases—the same city, the same course, same lectures, teachers. The same parks. Houses… On different roads.