And maybe that was true. But there was a time for everything, she also said.
Often. For example, when the doctors gave her the diagnosis four years ago.
She found it easier to forgive than Ove did. Forgive God and the universe and everything.
Ove got angry instead. Maybe because he felt someone had to be angry on her behalf,
when everything that was evil seemed to assail the only person he’d ever met who didn’t deserve it.
So he fought the whole world. He fought with hospital personnel and he fought with specialists and chief physicians.
He fought with men in white shirts and the council representatives who in the end grew so numerous that he could barely remember their names.
There was an insurance policy for this, another insurance policy for that;
there was one contact person because Sonja was ill and another because she was in a wheelchair.
Then a third contact person so she did not have to go to work
and a fourth contact person to try to persuade the bloody authorities that this was precisely what she wanted: to go to work.
And it was impossible to fight the men in white shirts. And one could not fight a diagnosis.
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