She didn’t answer and carried on staring down at the table while crying her ominously quiet tears. How long would they have to sit there like that until it all kicked off? He felt powerless in a way he rarely experienced. He was usually the one who had solutions to everything. But this time he wouldn’t be able to help her—he could feel it.

“She’s just a kid, Jan,” Gunilla said quietly, without looking up.

She? Did she mean Sandra? So Sandra had been here, marching into his territory and upsetting his wife. Rage welled up inside him. That greedy fucking slut certainly wasn’t afraid to make good on her threats. Now she had dragged Gunilla into the mess—and that was disgraceful. Gunilla had nothing to do with it—this was a struggle between the two of them, between Jan and Sandra. But Sandra didn’t understand the rules of the game. She was setting herself on innocent parties and meting out punishments.

Jan didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing and simply squeezed Gunilla’s hand a little more tightly to show that he was there for her. That he was upset too. What an idiot he was—how could he carry on in a situation like this?

“What were you thinking?” said Gunilla, still without looking at him.

He had asked himself the same thing and he had no answer.

“I wasn’t thinking at all,” he said, looking down despite the fact that she wasn’t looking at him. “I’d have to blame the booze.”

That hardly merited comment—he knew what she thought. And he essentially agreed with her. If he couldn’t handle his alcohol then he shouldn’t be drinking. Or at least he should be drinking less.

“How do you think it would look if we suddenly had a little boy in the house every other weekend?” said Gunilla. “What do you think people would say about that? And the kids especially?”

Where had she got that from? Sandra would never suggest anything like that—that was the only thing he was certain of.

“That’s not in the cards,” he said truthfully. “She is absolutely certain that she doesn’t want me involved in raising that youngster.”

“And you believe that?” said Gunilla, looking him in the eye for the first time. “She’s a young girl and probably has a job to go to. Of course she needs some respite.”

“Gunilla, I don’t know anything about that person, but . . .”

“Don’t call her that. She has a name and she’s the mother of your child. Show her some respect.”

Gunilla was in tears, but she was talking to him now—in a low voice, with reasoned arguments. Anything was better than that suffocating silence.