‘You’re wrong,’ Gerrit said. ‘I’m sorry, but I must respectfully disagree.’ He paused, and when he looked back down at me, his gaze was a little fiercer, more urgent. ‘Your parents loved you. They knew you were highly intelligent. If they seemed a trifle distant, it was because they wanted you to have some degree of independence. I remember Hilde taking you to a university on the mainland when you were about eight to take part in a program for gifted children. I think they already knew you were going to be something pretty special. The professor in charge of the program told Hilde she needed to stop coddling you. You needed to be allowed to make mistakes. Your particular type is the kind that thrives best when you have something to strive for, when you don’t have the fear of familial obligations holding you back. Hilde and Hans only wanted to create the kind of opportunities and conditions that might allow that to happen. I think you’ve proved their approach was the right one, don’t you?’

Anger pulsed in my gut and I glared at him. My hand itched, as if it might strike on its own, aiming straight for his chin. In that moment, he was the embodiment of both my parents, their ability to deflect my hurt feelings almost second nature, shrinking my emotional response to the size of a pea, to something that could be managed, hidden away out of sight.

I stood suddenly and he took a step back, as though the movement had caught him off guard.

‘I’d like to see the cottage now.’

‘Of course.’ He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a tarnished key. He placed it in my palm and I turned and strode outside, heading in the direction of the cottage, aware that he was still standing, dumbstruck, watching me through the open door.

I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t summon the energy to do anything except crawl into bed. I slept almost the whole way through the night, waking only once to stare around the dark room in confusion. In that strange liminal space, temporally untethered, I waited for the bookshelves of my bedroom to materialise, for the old wooden dresser to appear. Then I heard the rhythmic crash of waves. Sinking back onto the mattress, I didn’t stir again until it was morning. When I sat up, the sun was streaming through the curtains, painting the whitewashed wall a fiery orange. The clock beside the bed read eight o’clock.

An email and a message were waiting on my phone. I scanned them quickly.

There’s no hot water! Marieke had written. I think the tank’s failed. I’ve tried phoning the plumber, but he won’t return my calls. I can’t run a bath. When will you be home to help?

I was tempted to reply that the reason the plumber refused to speak to her was because the last time we’d called him out to the house, she’d asked for his opinion regarding the recent election then shouted at him for voting for the wrong person. Instead, I googled another local plumber and forwarded the details on.