I didn’t hear Daddy’s reply but walked toward the tent, toward Magnus, while I could feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. Daddy didn’t take me seriously, I was still a child to him, a little girl. It infuriated me and at the same time I was embarrassed for his sake, because I saw Daddy the way Lars had seen him, as someone who had said and done everything right, by the book, but who, when it came right down to it, with a knife against his throat, was just as irrational and selfish as everyone else. Daddy wanted to be like Lars, but would never be able to fill his shoes.

I approached the tent. It was starting to get dark and I stumbled on the uneven ground, but managed to recover my balance at the last moment. At the same time I heard steps behind me and somebody calling my name.

She jogged toward me. At first I didn’t recognize her. In her ski knickers and parka she almost looked like a young boy—and she moved with the same lightness as before, as if she weren’t a day older.

It was Mom.

Mom and Svein, Svein and Mom, of course she’d come up with him. Else was of course looking after the little boys, my half brothers whom I barely knew, and Mom had come here to support Svein, support the village, and emphasize which side she was on—the hotel’s side—but first and foremost, the new, little family’s side. Unnecessary, I thought, so horribly unnecessary. You didn’t need to do it, we know it already, we know where you stand, what you want, how you make your money, and how you’ve planned to ensure your children’s futures. Why did you want to come here, to demonstrate it yet again, in yet another manner? Why did you want yet again to dissociate yourself from me and everything that’s mine, from what you and Daddy once had?

I stopped. I wanted to scream but couldn’t, because tears would also come with the scream—I could feel it now, the fierceness with which they were rising—so I just stood there like that, completely silent, waiting for what she was going to say, how she would yet again declare her loyalties, like rubbing salt in a wound.

But she said none of this.

“My dear child . . .” She took a step toward me. “My dear, you’re dirty.”