He really had meant it. In fact, he’d been looking forward to spending six months at home with the children, taking it easy. Yes, that was how he thought about it, even though he’d never been stupid enough to say it out loud, that it was going to be really nice to take it easy for a while.

But then everything had gone wrong at the CID. First, Karen had been put on long-term sick leave, then Evald Johannisen, who had heart problems, had gone down to part-time. They’d needed Karl to stay on. Would it be possible to delay his parental leave, just a few weeks, just until they could figure things out? But the start of October had turned into December before his parental leave became reality. And then Smeed had called the other day. Karl was really needed at work now, could he possibly . . . ?

He’d been home less than a month. More like three weeks.

‘Three weeks over Christmas,’ Ingrid had said. ‘And you were ill most of that time so I had to take care of you and the children.’

‘It’s an emergency, what am I supposed to do? And besides, it’s only a few more months for you. Worst-case scenario.’

What was she so upset about? he’d wondered. The childminder had told them she’d be able to take all three children after Easter. Fine, so an extra three and a half months at home for Ingrid.

‘That’s more than six months longer than we agreed. I was supposed to go back to work in October. Or did you forget that?’

*

Now he walks back to the hallway, bends down and undoes his boots, then yanks down a hanger, drops it on the floor, picks it up and hangs up his coat. What the fuck did he come home for? He might as well have stayed on Noorö. He could be sitting at a hotel bar right now, enjoying the peace and quiet and a nice glass of whiskey, instead of coming home to get yelled at for something he can’t do anything about. The laws may be progressive, but reality isn’t. If he had refused to pitch in during a crisis like this one, he wouldn’t stand a chance of ever being promoted.

He takes a deep breath before returning to the kitchen and lets out a searing oath as his foot lands in the puddle of melted snow he’d already forgotten. His sock is instantly soaked.

‘God fucking dammit!’ he exclaims and holds on to the door frame while he lifts up his dripping foot and catches a glimpse of Ingrid’s smile before she turns away.

‘Nice of you to clean up after yourself, at least,’ she says, and isn’t that a suppressed giggle he hears in her voice?