“Leukaemia,” Lubbi repeated. “Fuck.”

“She was in pain, had bruises everywhere, infections that never went away, and she was always tired. She had treatment for almost two years. Chemotherapy. And then she had a bone marrow transplant. Nothing helped. Her kidneys stopped working and eventually she couldn’t cope any longer. She was six when she gave up. Almost nine years ago. She would have turned fifteen this year.”

No one said anything for a while. Lubbi held her tight and Nanna squeezed her hand. It felt a little better now that someone actually cared. It didn’t change what had happened, but in that moment she felt warmth from these people, of a kind she rarely experienced any longer.

“She suffered so much during those years,” said Jeanette when she had collected herself. “We suffered too—my husband and I. It was horrible standing by and being unable to do anything except be there for Charlotte. And eventually having to part from our child, to bury her . . . It’s indescribable.”

“How did he take it?” Nanna asked. “Your husband?”

“While Charlotte was still alive, we were strong together. Incomprehensibly strong, on reflection. One or both of us were always with her. We were united against the rest of the world, against disinterested healthcare workers and unsympathetic authorities. But when we lost Charlotte, everything that had kept us together vanished.”

“You got divorced?” said Lubbi.

“Not at once. We wore each other down for another five years. He struggled on, pretending everything was normal. I became increasingly blasé, got tired of our empty lives and our boring conversations. I long for those now. But at least we shared our grief after Charlotte died. We could have talked about it. I wanted to, but he kept all that difficult stuff at arm’s length and wanted to move on with his life, as he said. He was probably right—I’m a much weaker person.”

The tears began to flow more heavily. Jeanette snuffled and wiped the tears on the arm of her jacket. Lubbi and Nanna sat quietly, waiting for more.

“I met a guy at work,” Jeanette continued. “He was married with kids, but we started having an affair. We used to sneak off in his car in the afternoons. For a rendezvous. It felt grubby and deceitful, but you have to start somewhere. You can’t leave your old relationship headlong before you’ve at least tasted the new one.”

Lubbi opened a can of beer and passed it to Jeanette. She knew she shouldn’t, but she still drank from it. She offered it to Nanna too, but she declined, so Jeanette handed the can back to Lubbi and carried on with her tale.

“We talked about a future together. I was head over heels in love with him, ready to give up everything I still had. It didn’t seem like much then, but looking back . . . And it went to hell with the new guy. A complete disaster. I got depressed and had panic attacks. I was on sick leave and started taking tranquilisers. Drinking box wine. I stopped working out, stopped socialising with people, stopped talking to my husband. He didn’t know about the affair, but after six months or so he’d had enough of me and the awful state I was in. Completely understandable, but I didn’t care. To begin with. Until reality caught up and I saw this worn-out, skinny pisshead looking back at me in the bathroom mirror. It didn’t exactly relieve the fear of going back to work and normal everyday life.”