He walked out to the bathroom; he could hear her moving around in the kitchen. She was filling the kettle. Carefully he let the razor blade glide over his protruding Adam’s apple. The boy was noticeably quiet. Had he gone back to bed? Usually he was at his mother’s heels in the morning, babbling on and on about all kinds of things. It was kind of interesting to listen to what children say when they don’t know anyone’s listening. He realized with surprise that he almost missed that babbling. Half our lives is habit, he thought.

She was spooning out oatmeal for their son when he entered the dining room. She glanced at him. ‘I’ll get the coffee,’ she said.

He gave a quick nod and sat down across from his son and took a look at him. The child avoided his gaze and rocked nervously in his chair.

He must have done something, thought the father.

A certain suspicion occurred to him. He grimaced as if he had just tasted something bitter.

‘Can you show Daddy your knife?’ he said gently.

The boy had been given the knife for Christmas. Since then, the father had asked about it every now and then. The boy didn’t keep track of his things well enough, and when one of his toys got lost, his mother replaced it with the same thing, as well as she could, to avoid conflict. A short-sighted, egotistical maneuver, which furthermore was somewhat pointless, because the switch was usually discovered. Apart from a few instances which involved a cowboy pistol, a headband with an Indian feather, and a plastic puzzle, he was always able to expose her tricks. It really didn’t take much brainpower to tell the difference between new and used things. The other three times he hadn’t mentioned anything. He had a strong sense of justice, and would rather risk believing a lie than blaming people for things they hadn’t done.