Her fit of irritation has subsided, replaced by some kind of resigned tenderness. Now, in the wake of the anger and frustration, here, warmed by the whiskey and with a limp cat on her lap, she doesn’t have it in her to keep her guard up, doesn’t have it in her to defend herself against all the things that will be her undoing unless she’s careful.

She’s not your daughter, don’t ever forget that.

Susanne Smeed’s last words are still ringing in her ears.

She silently studies the daughter that isn’t hers, the girl she took under her wing just a few months ago. She had found Sigrid slumped, wet and feverish, on the front steps of the house that had unexpectedly been forced on the girl. Too weak to protest, Sigrid had let Karen take her home and ply her with hot tea, crackers and Tylenol until the flu had relinquished its grip on her.

And somehow, she had never really moved back out.

Granted, Sigrid’s official address is still the house her mother left her, but she spends most of her time at Karen’s. She’s supposedly never staying long, but often ends up hanging around until late at night and stays over in the guest room as often as she dares to ask. Like a cat you shoo away, only to have it turn up on your front porch again the next day.

Just like you, Karen thinks to herself and strokes the grey cat’s belly, absent-mindedly teasing out a knot with her nails. Rufus just turned up one day, too, and decided to stay. Leo, she had invited as a house-cum-cat sitter when she went on holiday. A holiday that had been cut tragically short. But he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, either. On the other hand, he doesn’t have a lot of options.

How had this happened? When did my house turn into to bloody homeless shelter? Karen wonders and takes another sip of whiskey.

She doesn’t hear it herself. Instead, Marike, who had gone to the bathroom, comes back with Karen’s phone in her hand.

‘It was in your coat pocket. I figured you might want to take this particular call,’ she adds with a significant glance at the screen before handing the phone over.

Karen just has time to see the words ‘Jounas Smeed’ before the phone falls silent. She heaves a deep sigh.

‘Don’t tell me it’s Dad,’ Sigrid says. Karen confirms with a nod.

‘Has he tried to call you, too?’ she asks.

Sigrid pulls her phone out of her back pocket and shakes her head.

‘No, no missed calls,’ she groans. ‘What does he want now? I was there both today and yesterday!’

‘Maybe he just wants to wish you a happy Christmas?’ her mother puts in gently.