Mum has slipped off her shoes and is resting her legs in Stein’s lap. He is rubbing her feet slowly, they’re brown with slack-looking, craggy veins. She never paints her toenails; she thinks it’s vain. I think about Mum and Dad, it’s like looking at old slides, I see them sitting on our old garden chairs, the ones we threw out long ago. Dad with his chainsaw, in the process of cutting down some bush or other, Mum sighing and complaining about the racket as she tries to read a magazine, the way she eventually ditches the magazine and stomps back inside. Stein and Mum pick at each other like a pair of chimpanzees, Mum asks if he’s too hot or too cold, Stein asks if she needs another jumper or more coffee, Mum asks about Stein’s back and he perks up at the opportunity to tell her that it’s not feeling great, it’s really not, and Mum pats him and says that she thinks they ought to make an appointment with the chiropractor, doesn’t he think? I tell them that chiropractors are pedlars of superstition and Stein tells me that they work wonders on him. I once asked Mum who the love of her life was, Stein or Dad, just teasingly, it was a few years ago now. Mum said that there wasn’t necessarily one love in any person’s life, you can make things 89work with more people than you might think, she said. Then she pondered the question for a moment and said that she probably wouldn’t choose to have children with Dad if she had her time again, if she really thought about it.

‘It’s never too late for love,’ Stein says, patting Mum’s knee. ‘We’re just late bloomers.’

‘Late bloomers are closet gays who take years to come out,’ I say.

Mum laughs, I don’t actually think she finds it funny.

‘That’s not true,’ Marthe says, she’s finished clearing up and nestles under Mum’s arm.

Kristoffer returns from putting Olea to bed, he’s brought a box of wine and asks who’d like some.

‘Me,’ I say, raising a hand, Mum and Stein only want half a glass each, and Marthe requests an alcohol-free beer. Kristoffer fetches her one. I wouldn’t be asking Kristoffer to fetch me things if I were her. I’d be much more chilled-out with Olea, take her out in the boat and teach her to fish.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Mum asks me.

I shake my head.

‘I’m just thinking about how nice it is that we have this place,’ I say.

Marthe and Kristoffer look at one another, something about their expression catches my attention.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ Marthe says. ‘It can wait.’

‘No,’ I reply, ‘tell me.’

I hear my voice becoming childlike, tell me, tell me. Marthe scratches her nose. 90