Page 60 of The Happiness Blueprint
“My hands are clean,” Dad says, holding his palms up.
“Sorry—habit.”
She props the iPad up against the kitchen paper-towel holder, and Mum appears on-screen, wearing a loose linen shirt and her glasses.
“Spinach lasagna,” I say.
“Chicken salad,” she replies.
“Cheesecake,” Saga contributes.
“Yogurt,” Mum says.
“Oh gosh. The crushing feeling of asking what’s for dessert and being told there’s a bloodyyogurtin the fridge,” Saga moans.
“Precious childhood memories,” I add. Then I turn to Mum. “Where is your husband?” It still feels wrong to call him that. Maybe if I’d seen them exchange vows it would make more sense to me, but they simply booked an appointment at the town hall in order to get the Spanish-residency papers processed faster. The only proof that it had even happened was my mum’s new surname.
“Dinner with his golf club.” She looks at us with pride, eyes bouncing from one to the other. “It’s nice seeing you together. I’m so happy you went to help her, Saga.”
I glance at my sister. She hasn’t told Mum why she’s really here? Mum thinks she’s swooped in to help her hopeless sister? Indeed, Saga avoids looking at me.
Dad has stayed quiet, chewing on his food slowly at the end of the table, but talks now.
“Klara is doing very well. No need to help her after that viral video. Or before that. They have a busy schedule over the next few days, but I’m sure Saga will be able to keep up.”
I repress the urge to ask him to speak up, one more time, louder for the people in the back, please. It’s recognition, and I’ll take it.
Five minutes later everyone is chatting over each other, and I raise my hand high above my head, as if I’m in school sitting on the correct answer.
“Klara?” my mum says.
“We’re not in a classroom,” my sister says.
“Well, how else am I supposed to be heard in this crowd?”
They all burst out laughing, and I join in too, forgetting why I raised my hand in the first place.
After dinner Saga sneaks off to call Heinrich, and I clear the table with Dad.
“That was intense,” I say. “Far from our quiet eggs-on-toast mealtimes.”
“She often calls, you know.”
“Oh, I know that.”
“To have dinner, I mean.”
“You have Zoom dinner dates?” This is new and peculiar information.
“She’s not good at being alone, your mum. And he has a lot of commitments and friends that she shares him with.”
I place the remaining lasagna into four plastic containers for tomorrow’s lunch—one for me, one for Saga, one for Dad and one for Alex. He was nice enough to bring me a sandwich, after all.
“Why do you put up with it, though? She left you.” I never understood why Dad never had the same bitterness that Saga and I felt and sometimes still feel. Initially there was sadness: he was like a child who had a treat taken away and doesn’t quite know what to do with themself.
“Let me try to explain.” Dad smiles warmly at me. “I used to play soccer semi-professionally forMalmö MFF.”
I nod. We have an album full of him looking fit in a football shirt, and apparently he spotted Mum across the street as he alighted from the team bus. She was looking at a Levi’s shop window with her best friend, and the rest is history, as they say. Well, now it’sreallyhistory.
