And then there’s Elisabeth. The way she keeps appearing in my mind constantly, in the face of the crown princess or random women on the street, or even in my own blurred reflection in a shop window as I rush past through the seemingly endless autumn rain. There is an element of obsessive compulsion to these appearances, like my mind is running on a loop and whatever it is I’m actually looking at, it morphs into Elisabeth. I may consider discreetly seeking out some cognitive behavioral therapy from a trusted colleague to address it. But CBT isn’t going to change the fact that I will never see Elisabeth again, that I failed her, and I can’t bear it.

I walk aimlessly through the dark, hushed apartment. I can’t remember where Eirik is or what his excuse was for missing dinner today. I stare at the closed door of the larger of the guest bedrooms, the room in which Elisabeth took her very last breath.

I move my gaze to the second spare bedroom, the one with the lovely outlook into the interior courtyard of our building, with its barbecue spots and sweet little playground. The room we intended for our child. I push the door open and stand for a long while in the sparse, cool space and watch the wind tear at the tarpaulin covering the summer garden furniture three floors below. Raindrops rush down the windowpane and I follow a couple with my fingertips, making myself breathe deeply. It’s just a hard day, Kristina, I tell myself. This was something my first therapist taught me, back when I had mostly hard days. It doesn’t mean that tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after will be hard. It’s just one hard day.