When her mother left (always just before Egon was expected home) and Helga waved to her familiar substantial figure for as long as she could see it, then she sat back down at the window without turning on the light. A sadness grew within her and around her. She thought: If only Egon would come home. But when he did come, and filled the small rooms with his noisy company, every enchantment was shattered. Could it be that it wasn’t him she was longing for? She walked around quietly, carrying out her housewifely duties, picked at her food like a bird, and said ‘yes’ and ‘no’, when her husband’s remarks required an answer. Once, he regarded her closely. ‘You should have a kid,’ he said. ‘I damn well don’t understand why it’s not happening.’ Then she blushed, partly at her deficiency in that department, but more because she didn’t actually mind not having a child. Her togetherness with her mother allowed the child Helga to live on within her, so it was as if there wasn’t room for another one. Sometimes she lied to Egon when he asked if her mother had been over, because for some reason he didn’t like her mother to visit so often when he wasn’t home.

The days passed without much to distinguish one from the next.