“I thought about keeping the money,” Ove whispered at long last, and took his father’s hand in a firmer grip, as if he was afraid of letting go.
“I know,” said his father, and squeezed his hand a little harder. “But I knew you would hand it in, and I knew a person like Tom wouldn’t,” said Ove.
His father nodded. And not another word was said about it.
Had Ove been the sort of man who contemplated how and when one became the sort of man one was,
he might have said this was the day he learned that right has to be right.
But he wasn’t one to dwell on things like that.
He contented himself with remembering that on this day he’d decided to be as little unlike his father as possible.
He had only just turned sixteen when his father died. A hurtling carriage on the track.
Ove was left with not much more than a Saab, a ramshackle house a few miles out of town, and a dented old wristwatch.
He was never able to properly explain what happened to him that day.
But he stopped being happy. He wasn’t happy for several years after that.
At the funeral, the vicar wanted to talk to him about foster homes,
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