In the middle of the room is a birthday cake with eight lit candles, towards which the well-built young man immediately navigates.
The girl, who is now an eight-year-old, stays in the hall, touching the iPad box with amazement.
As if she hardly dares believe that she’s actually got it in her hands.
Ove leans towards her. “That’s how I always felt every time I bought a new car,” he says in a low voice.
She looks around to make sure no one can see; then she smiles and gives him a hug. “Thanks, Granddad,” she whispers and runs into her room.
Ove stands quietly in the hall, poking his house keys against the calluses on one of his palms.
Patrick comes limping along on his crutches in pursuit of the eight-year-old.
Apparently he’s been given the evening’s most thankless task: that of convincing his daughter that it’s more fun sitting there in a dress,
eating cake with a lot of boring grown-ups, than staying in her room listening to pop music and downloading apps onto her new iPad.
Ove stays in the hall with his jacket on and stares emptily at the floor for what must be almost ten minutes.
“Are you okay?” Parvaneh’s voice tugs gently at him as if he is coming out of a deep dream.
She’s standing in the opening to the living room with her hands on her globular stomach,
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