Shame

growing. She drove there and back like a cab driver, always trying to adapt herself to her mother’s sullen mood and never receiving a thank you, never even a comment that was anywhere near gratitude or appreciation. But the anger was new, it made its way along paths over which she had no control. Had she not been forced into this ferrying role, Mattias would still be alive and everything would be much simpler.
    Much simpler.

    She left the little fenced gravesite to return the watering can. Her mother was kneeling down, planting heather. Lavender, pink and white. Carefully selected plants.
    Monika put down the can and watched her mother’s hands gently clearing away some untidy leaves that had settled in the well-tended little flowerbed that surrounded the stone.
    My beloved son.
    Unconditionally loved and now unconditionally lost, but forever the central point around which everything revolved. A black hole that sucked in everything that could possibly still be alive. Day in and day out supplying new fuel for the attitude that no acceptance was possible, that subjugation was the only option, that everything was ruined and meaningless and would remain so.
    A family destroyed.
    Four minus two equals zero.
    She heard herself saying the words.
    ‘Why did Pappa leave us?’
    She saw how the stooped back in front of her flinched. How the hands stopped moving.
    ‘Why do you ask?’
    Her heart was thudding in heavy, dull beats.
    ‘Because I want to know. Because I’ve always wondered but have never got round to asking until now.’
    The fingers down by the gravestone regained their mobility and began pressing down the soil around the white heather.
    ‘What made you ask at this particular moment?’
    She could hear when it broke. A dull rumble that grew stronger and stronger as the fury she had kept in check for so long tore loose and seized hold of her. The words clogged her mouth, jostling to be first, to escape and finally be spoken.
    ‘Does that matter? I don’t know why I didn’t ask twenty years ago, but that makes no difference, the answer is probably still the same, isn’t it?’
    Her mother stood up, carefully and meticulously folding up the newspaper she had been kneeling on.
    ‘Has something happened?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I just wonder why you have such a disagreeable tone.’
    Disagreeable tone? Disagreeable tone! Thirty-eight years old and she had finally worked up the courage to ask why she had never had a father, and the stress just might have affected her tone of voice a bit. And of course her mother’s first reaction would be to accuse her of having a disagreeable tone.
    ‘Why don’t you ask your father instead?’
    She could feel her face growing hot.
    ‘Because I don’t know him! Because I don’t even know where the hell he lives now, and because you never once tried to help me get in touch with him. In fact, I remember how angry you got when I told you that I wrote him a letter.’
    She had a hard time deciding what she was seeing in her mother’s eyes. She had never broached the topic before and had definitely never used this tone of voice. Not in any situation.
    ‘So it’s my fault that he left us and never took any responsibility? Is that it? I’m the one who has to answer for it? Your father was an idiot who got me pregnant even though he didn’t want any kids, and then when he did it again, it was the last straw for him. He disappeared while you were still in my womb. I already had Lasse, and being a single mother to two small children isn’t always easy. But, of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that since you don’t have any.’
    A rhythmic throbbing sound echoed over the cemetery, and it took Monika a moment before she recognised it was her own pulse she was hearing.
    ‘So that’s why you never liked me? Because it was my fault that Pappa left?’
    ‘That’s idiotic and you know it as well as I do.’
    ‘No, I don’t know it!’
    Her mother took a cemetery candle out of the pocket of her ample coat and angrily began picking off the plastic wrapper. But she didn’t answer.
    ‘Why do we always have to come here to the grave? It’s been twenty-three years since he died and the only thing we do together is drive here and light those damned candles.’
    ‘It’s not my fault that you never have time. You’re always working. Or out with your friends. You never have time for me.’
    Always, always, whatever she did. Despite the anger that protected her at the