I remember the bag standing by the bed since the evening back then. I had packed it myself diapers, the outfit for leaving the hospital, tiny baby clothes in white and yellow stripes that I had bought already in the eighth month. The nurse had said: “Around ten in the morning,” and I had nodded, as if it went without saying. Mikkel would call back. Mikkel would come. Mikkel was always punctual.
I put the phone on charge and lay down. Our little Freja slept next to me in the clear plastic crib tiny, wrinkled, with dark fuzz on the nape of her neck. I watched her and thought that everything would change now. That Mikkel would understand. That those three days in the maternity ward were the time when men mature.
At ten he didn’t show up.
I called no answer. Texted he read it but didn’t reply. Then he texted himself, around ten thirty: “I’ll be there soon.” I set the phone aside. The nurse brought papers to sign. The helper dressed Freja that’s the name we had chosen for her beforehand, even before she was born, Freja.
At eleven he still wasn’t there.
I called once more. This time he picked up his voice drowsy and slow, as though he had just gotten out of bed.
Mikkel, where are you?
Coming, coming. Traffic.
What traffic on a Sunday?
Well, he hesitated. I’m on my way.
I set down the receiver. Freja moved in her blanket, making little bubbles. I gazed out the window at the gray February courtyard, bare trees, cars parked by the curb. Across from the hospital, on the other side of the street, there was a small café with yellow lettering on the window. I had seen it for three days from the ward but had never really noticed it before.
Now I did.
At one table by the window sat a man. Blue jacket. Dark hair. His back was to me, yet I knew that back so well from all the times I had watched it in the dark as he turned to the wall and fell asleep quicker than I could wish him good night.
Across from him was a young woman. A stroller, gray and pricey with big wheels, stood beside their table.
I stood at the window for perhaps three minutes. Then I grabbed the bag, asked the helper to mind Freja, and went down to the on-duty nurse.
I need to step out for five minutes, I told her. Are the papers all set?
They are. But you should wait for your husband, she peered at me over her spectacles.
It won’t take long.
I left via the staff entrance that my ward mate Hanne, who had been discharged the day before, had pointed out. The February cold struck at once face, under the coat, ears. I crossed the street and pushed open the café door.
It smelled of coffee and cinnamon inside. Soft jazz played, the tune unfamiliar. I spotted them immediately.
Mikkel sat holding a cup in both hands. He laughed, head thrown back a little, shoulders loose. I hadn’t seen him that at ease in months, not since my belly had started showing.
The woman spoke and smiled. She looked nice fine features, short brown hair. No sound came from the stroller; the baby slept.
I walked up to the table and stood there.
Mikkel looked up, and his smile vanished like a cord yanked out.
Signe…
Hello, I said. You said you were coming.
He set the cup down. The woman regarded me with polite puzzlement.
Signe, hold on, this isn’t…
Not what I think? I kept my voice even. Other tables were occupied, I sensed eyes on us, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t answer at ten. Texted “soon” at half past ten. It’s nearly twelve. I stood at the window and saw you, Mikkel. Saw you clearly.
Signe, he rose. Let’s step outside.
No need. I have to get back soon; Freja is waiting.
The woman sat up a bit straighter.
Excuse me, she said. Are you his wife?
Yes.
I’m Ida. Ida Pedersen. I work with Mikkel.
I glanced at her, then the stroller.
We ran into each other here by chance, Ida went on. I live nearby. I popped in with my daughter. Mikkel must have done the same. We just got chatting.
How long have you been chatting?
Ida paused briefly.
I got here around nine.
I turned to Mikkel.
Around nine. You were here at nine. You knew we were being discharged at ten.
Signe…
You knew?
Yes, he held my gaze, but something shifted in him, a tiny flicker of unease. I just wanted a quick coffee. Five minutes.
Three hours, Mikkel. Three hours isn’t five minutes!
The baby in the stroller stirred. Ida leaned over quickly to tuck the blanket. Her little one was perhaps three months.
I’m sorry, Ida said softly to me. I didn’t know about the discharge. He never mentioned it.
It’s fine, I replied quietly. It’s not your doing.
I faced Mikkel.
The papers are ready. Park the car by the staff door; I’ll tell the guard to let you in. Wait there.
Then I left.
Back across the street I walked more slowly. The February air didn’t bite as hard perhaps I had warmed up inside the café, or perhaps for another reason. I reflected on how Freja knew nothing of discharges yet. At just three days old, her world was all about eating and sleeping. She had a whole life ahead, and I wanted it to be a good one.
The helper waited with Freja in her arms.
Has he come?
He’ll be here soon, I said.
I took my daughter. She smelled of milk and powder, a real, solid scent that made the café, the blue jacket, the music fade a little.
The nurse gave me the last documents. I signed them. Got dressed, dressed Freja the snowsuit had three snaps, my hands shook but I managed.
Mikkel waited at the staff exit. The car was right where I’d said. He came to us, reached for the bag I handed it over. Then he tried to take Freja I didn’t let him.
Signe…
Later, I said. Home first.
He didn’t argue.
In the car we rode without words.
Freja slept in her car seat; I sat behind with a hand on the edge. Mikkel drove. A tree-shaped air freshener hung from the rearview mirror it had been there since December; I’d always meant to tell him to take it down.
Is she asleep? he asked.
Yes.
Good.
The February streets slid by outside gray, with gritty snow on the sidewalks. Few people about. An ad on a building wall for some bank.
I watched Freja. In sleep she had this way of parting her lips a little, as if about to speak but deciding to wait. I had grown fond of that.
Signe, Mikkel said.
Later, I said again.
I just wanted to…
Mikkel. Later.
He quieted. A red light. He stopped, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel his habit.
Green. We moved.
I thought then, and still think now, that the maternity ward was behind us. Ahead lay the apartment where, three days earlier, I had been someone else. Or maybe the same. I couldn’t tell.
We parked by the entrance. Mikkel took the bag. I carried Freja. Up in the elevator to the sixth floor. He worked the key in the lock for ages, as he always did; we had put off fixing that lock for too long.
Welcome home, he said softly, unsure whom he meant.
Thank you, I answered.
Home smelled just as it had three days before coffee, dust, his aftershave. Two cups sat in the kitchen sink. I saw them at once. Two, not one.
I placed Freja in the white crib we had set up two months earlier, with its little cloud mobile. She turned her head and settled. I went to the kitchen.
Who was here? I asked.
Mikkel stood at the window, not turning at once.
What do you mean?
Two cups in the sink. I went into the hospital on Thursday. It’s Sunday now. Who used the second one?
My mother stopped by.
Your mother?
Yes.
When?
Friday, I think.
I ran the tap, took the sponge, washed both cups without a word, set them to dry.
Mikkel, I said, back still to him. I want to talk, but not now. I need to feed Freja and get an hour’s sleep. Then we can talk.
All right, his voice careful, like someone testing thin ice.
And I want honesty. Not now, later. But honest.
I am being honest.
I turned at last.
You sat in that café from nine this morning, on the day your daughter was to come home. You silenced your phone and never answered until I called. That’s not honest, Mikkel. It’s worse than that.
He met my eyes with that look I knew from our four years together: not guilt, but bewilderment. He felt trapped, not sorry.
I’ll explain, he said.
I’m listening. But not now. In two hours.
I went to Freja.
She fed eagerly, seriously. I watched her and thought: here is someone who needs no explanations, no promises of honesty. She just needs me, all of me, right now.
I laid her down and lay down too. I believed I wouldn’t sleep, but I did before the thought finished.
I woke after ninety minutes. Freja slept on. The flat was still.
Mikkel sat at the kitchen table, coffee before him, phone face down. When I came in he slipped it into his pocket, too fast.
I poured water and sat across.
Tell me, I said.
He waited, then spoke.
Ida and I have worked together two years. You remember the project, that bid in November. She went on leave before it ended, and we talked a lot.
I remember. You came home at ten at night. I was seven months along.
Yes. We worked hard.
And?
Nothing more. Just work. He looked up. Signe, I swear there’s nothing between us.
Was or is?
A small pause.
Nothing now, he said.
But there was?
He set the cup down.
Signe…
Yes or no.
It’s not that simple.
I nodded slowly.
I see.
Wait. He reached out; I didn’t move, so he pulled back. It happened once, long ago. Before you were pregnant. A mistake. I ended it.
Once.
Yes.
And today you just happened to be at the café when I needed you.
I went for coffee. Saw her. We talked. I didn’t plan it, I swear.
You didn’t plan it. You simply didn’t come for your own daughter’s discharge. It just happened.
Silence.
I went to the window, the familiar view of trees and cars. Three days earlier I had looked at the same sky from another window.
Mikkel, I said without turning. I won’t fight. I haven’t the strength or the will. Our daughter is three days old. I want you to understand something.
What?
I could have forgiven a mistake if you’d told me yourself, before I saw you through that window. Do you see the difference?
Still silent.
You missed the discharge because sitting there mattered more to you. Not even about Ida. About what you chose.
I faced him.
No decisions today. Today I feed Freja and rest. Tomorrow the same. In a week we’ll talk again. You’ll tell me the whole truth then, not ‘once’ or ‘mistake’. Then I’ll decide.
Signe…
That’s all for now.
He nodded.
The following days felt thick, like wool. Freja slept, ate, stared at the ceiling with the gravity of someone pondering deep matters. Mikkel moved quietly, cooked, fetched diapers twice and my medicine once. I neither sent him away nor called him close.
On the third day Birthe rang.
I answered from habit.
Signe, her voice tight. How are you both?
We’re fine.
Mikkel seems odd. What happened?
Ask him.
Signe…
Birthe, I respect you, but I can’t discuss it now. I’m feeding every three hours and barely sleep. When I’m ready, we will.
A pause.
Very well. I’m sorry.
That surprised me.
I’ll bring soup tomorrow, if I may.
Yes. Thank you.
She came at noon with chicken soup and pastries. She went straight to Freja after removing her coat.
Heavens, what a lovely child.
Freja slept. Birthe stood long by the crib, hands clasped.
May I hold her?
Let her sleep a bit more.
She went to the kitchen, served the soup, made tea with bergamot for herself.
We ate in quiet.
Signe, I won’t meddle, she said at last.
Good.
But I must say this. Mikkel called. He told me what he’d done. I won’t defend him; he’s been a fool in these matters, always lets his head get the better of him. But he’s a good man at heart.
I’m not calling him bad, Birthe.
No?
No. That would be simpler.
She nodded, understanding.
You’ve always been the wiser one. I told him so.
I’m not sure that’s a blessing.
It is. One must be.
Freja cried out. I rose.
Soup’s good. Thank you.
Birthe followed, stood in the doorway as I lifted Freja.
Now?
I passed her over. Birthe held her surely, rocking gently.
Freja, little one…
Freja studied her gravely.
She has Mikkel’s forehead and nose.
I know.
But your eyes.
I watched them. This woman would always be Freja’s grandmother, no matter what. That was unchangeable.
A smile, perhaps just a reflex as the nurse had said, but Freja’s mouth corners moved while she lay in my arms looking at me.
Mikkel saw it too.
Signe, did you see?
Yes.
A smile?
Maybe still a reflex.
Even so.
We stood together in the quiet flat. I thought then, and think now, how strange life can be in a few seconds: standing beside someone you love yet cannot fully trust, or perhaps still do. You can’t say for sure.
I need to tell you something, he whispered.
Go on.
It wasn’t only once.
How many times?
About three months, in the autumn when you were six or seven months pregnant.
Freja yawned and slept.
I stopped it myself after. She wanted more, but I said no, it was wrong.
And the day of the discharge?
She texted that morning wanting to talk. I went thinking it would be quick, that I’d explain we were done because of the baby. But she cried, and I stayed.
You stayed with her but not with me.
He said nothing.
I laid Freja down.
Thank you for being honest.
Signe…
Not now. I need time to think, longer than three days. Can you give me that?
How long?
I don’t know. I need to see if I can live with it, not just forgive.
I understand.
Perhaps you don’t, but all right.
I covered Freja with the blanket. She slept trustingly, as only the innocent can.
A week later I called Lene, my friend from university days who lived elsewhere but wrote often about the baby.
Lene, I need to talk.
I hear it. Tell me.
I told her the essentials. She listened, then asked:
If he’d told you before you saw him, how would you have taken it?
Probably differently.
Exactly. It’s not just what happened, but that he hid it and only admitted when caught.
Yes.
You’re wise. Whatever you choose will be right because it’s your choice.
You always say that.
Because it’s true.
I laughed, the first real laugh that week.
Will you visit soon?
As soon as you’re walking with Freja. I must smell her head.
She smells lovely.
They all do; it’s nature’s trick.
Lene.
What?
Thanks.
Call tomorrow.
I hung up as the short February day faded. I made tea and sat by the window.
Mikkel returned from shopping, put things away, looked in.
Tea? I got mint for you.
Already have some.
Freja asleep?
Yes.
He went to unpack. The sounds were the same as always, yet everything inside had changed, and I wondered if it could ever be the same.
I came to accept things bit by bit. I watched Mikkel take Freja at night so I could rest, how he grew surer holding her, how he spoke to her seriously.
Once at four in the morning I woke to quiet. Went to the room.
Mikkel slept in the chair with Freja in his arms, both at peace. I stood watching, then returned to bed.
I didn’t know my decision yet, but I saw that people are more than one day’s actions. Freja would have this father who missed the discharge and this one who stayed up with her. The same man.
What to do was for me alone to decide.
One evening when Freja was three weeks old, Mikkel came home, made tea, sat with me.
How was work? I asked.
We finished the papers. Did you sleep?
A couple hours.
I went to a psychologist today. First session.
And?
She asked what I felt. I didn’t know. She called it alexithymia, trouble naming emotions.
I know the term.
She says it can be worked on.
He poured the tea, mint for me, bergamot for him.
I don’t expect you to change overnight, I said.
I know. I just want to understand myself, why I lied, why I went there that day. For me, not just for you.
All right.
I want you to see I’m trying.
I do.
He washed the cups, an old habit when uneasy.
I looked at his back, the same back from that café, yet I saw it differently now.
Mikkel.
Yes?
We have more to say. I don’t know how it ends. But I’m still here.
So am I.
Freja stirred. I went to her. She looked at me, and her mouth moved again in that small way.
I picked her up.
Outside, late February snow lay on the sill, soon to melt. I stood with her thinking that life is new each day, each morning a choice, and what matters is what I choose now, looking back on all that happened.I remember the bag standing by the bed since the evening back then. I had packed it myself diapers, the outfit for leaving the hospital, tiny baby clothes in white and yellow stripes that I had bought already in the eighth month. The nurse had said: “Around ten in the morning,” and I had nodded, as if it went without saying. Mikkel would call back. Mikkel would come. Mikkel was always punctual.
I put the phone on charge and lay down. Our little Freja slept next to me in the clear plastic crib tiny, wrinkled, with dark fuzz on the nape of her neck. I watched her and thought that everything would change now. That Mikkel would understand. That those three days in the maternity ward were the time when men mature.
At ten he didn’t show up.
I called no answer. Texted he read it but didn’t reply. Then he texted himself, around ten thirty: “I’ll be there soon.” I set the phone aside. The nurse brought papers to sign. The helper dressed Freja that’s the name we had chosen for her beforehand, even before she was born, Freja.
At eleven he still wasn’t there.
I called once more. This time he picked up his voice drowsy and slow, as though he had just gotten out of bed.
Mikkel, where are you?
Coming, coming. Traffic.
What traffic on a Sunday?
Well, he hesitated. I’m on my way.
I set down the receiver. Freja moved in her blanket, making little bubbles. I gazed out the window at the gray February courtyard, bare trees, cars parked by the curb. Across from the hospital, on the other side of the street, there was a small café with yellow lettering on the window. I had seen it for three days from the ward but had never really noticed it before.
Now I did.
At one table by the window sat a man. Blue jacket. Dark hair. His back was to me, yet I knew that back so well from all the times I had watched it in the dark as he turned to the wall and fell asleep quicker than I could wish him good night.
Across from him was a young woman. A stroller, gray and pricey with big wheels, stood beside their table.
I stood at the window for perhaps three minutes. Then I grabbed the bag, asked the helper to mind Freja, and went down to the on-duty nurse.
I need to step out for five minutes, I told her. Are the papers all set?
They are. But you should wait for your husband, she peered at me over her spectacles.
It won’t take long.
I left via the staff entrance that my ward mate Hanne, who had been discharged the day before, had pointed out. The February cold struck at once face, under the coat, ears. I crossed the street and pushed open the café door.
It smelled of coffee and cinnamon inside. Soft jazz played, the tune unfamiliar. I spotted them immediately.
Mikkel sat holding a cup in both hands. He laughed, head thrown back a little, shoulders loose. I hadn’t seen him that at ease in months, not since my belly had started showing.
The woman spoke and smiled. She looked nice fine features, short brown hair. No sound came from the stroller; the baby slept.
I walked up to the table and stood there.
Mikkel looked up, and his smile vanished like a cord yanked out.
Signe…
Hello, I said. You said you were coming.
He set the cup down. The woman regarded me with polite puzzlement.
Signe, hold on, this isn’t…
Not what I think? I kept my voice even. Other tables were occupied, I sensed eyes on us, but it didn’t matter. You didn’t answer at ten. Texted “soon” at half past ten. It’s nearly twelve. I stood at the window and saw you, Mikkel. Saw you clearly.
Signe, he rose. Let’s step outside.
No need. I have to get back soon; Freja is waiting.
The woman sat up a bit straighter.
Excuse me, she said. Are you his wife?
Yes.
I’m Ida. Ida Pedersen. I work with Mikkel.
I glanced at her, then the stroller.
We ran into each other here by chance, Ida went on. I live nearby. I popped in with my daughter. Mikkel must have done the same. We just got chatting.
How long have you been chatting?
Ida paused briefly.
I got here around nine.
I turned to Mikkel.
Around nine. You were here at nine. You knew we were being discharged at ten.
Signe…
You knew?
Yes, he held my gaze, but something shifted in him, a tiny flicker of unease. I just wanted a quick coffee. Five minutes.
Three hours, Mikkel. Three hours isn’t five minutes!
The baby in the stroller stirred. Ida leaned over quickly to tuck the blanket. Her little one was perhaps three months.
I’m sorry, Ida said softly to me. I didn’t know about the discharge. He never mentioned it.
It’s fine, I replied quietly. It’s not your doing.
I faced Mikkel.
The papers are ready. Park the car by the staff door; I’ll tell the guard to let you in. Wait there.
Then I left.
Back across the street I walked more slowly. The February air didn’t bite as hard perhaps I had warmed up inside the café, or perhaps for another reason. I reflected on how Freja knew nothing of discharges yet. At just three days old, her world was all about eating and sleeping. She had a whole life ahead, and I wanted it to be a good one.
The helper waited with Freja in her arms.
Has he come?
He’ll be here soon, I said.
I took my daughter. She smelled of milk and powder, a real, solid scent that made the café, the blue jacket, the music fade a little.
The nurse gave me the last documents. I signed them. Got dressed, dressed Freja the snowsuit had three snaps, my hands shook but I managed.
Mikkel waited at the staff exit. The car was right where I’d said. He came to us, reached for the bag I handed it over. Then he tried to take Freja I didn’t let him.
Signe…
Later, I said. Home first.
He didn’t argue.
In the car we rode without words.
Freja slept in her car seat; I sat behind with a hand on the edge. Mikkel drove. A tree-shaped air freshener hung from the rearview mirror it had been there since December; I’d always meant to tell him to take it down.
Is she asleep? he asked.
Yes.
Good.
The February streets slid by outside gray, with gritty snow on the sidewalks. Few people about. An ad on a building wall for some bank.
I watched Freja. In sleep she had this way of parting her lips a little, as if about to speak but deciding to wait. I had grown fond of that.
Signe, Mikkel said.
Later, I said again.
I just wanted to…
Mikkel. Later.
He quieted. A red light. He stopped, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel his habit.
Green. We moved.
I thought then, and still think now, that the maternity ward was behind us. Ahead lay the apartment where, three days earlier, I had been someone else. Or maybe the same. I couldn’t tell.
We parked by the entrance. Mikkel took the bag. I carried Freja. Up in the elevator to the sixth floor. He worked the key in the lock for ages, as he always did; we had put off fixing that lock for too long.
Welcome home, he said softly, unsure whom he meant.
Thank you, I answered.
Home smelled just as it had three days before coffee, dust, his aftershave. Two cups sat in the kitchen sink. I saw them at once. Two, not one.
I placed Freja in the white crib we had set up two months earlier, with its little cloud mobile. She turned her head and settled. I went to the kitchen.
Who was here? I asked.
Mikkel stood at the window, not turning at once.
What do you mean?
Two cups in the sink. I went into the hospital on Thursday. It’s Sunday now. Who used the second one?
My mother stopped by.
Your mother?
Yes.
When?
Friday, I think.
I ran the tap, took the sponge, washed both cups without a word, set them to dry.
Mikkel, I said, back still to him. I want to talk, but not now. I need to feed Freja and get an hour’s sleep. Then we can talk.
All right, his voice careful, like someone testing thin ice.
And I want honesty. Not now, later. But honest.
I am being honest.
I turned at last.
You sat in that café from nine this morning, on the day your daughter was to come home. You silenced your phone and never answered until I called. That’s not honest, Mikkel. It’s worse than that.
He met my eyes with that look I knew from our four years together: not guilt, but bewilderment. He felt trapped, not sorry.
I’ll explain, he said.
I’m listening. But not now. In two hours.
I went to Freja.
She fed eagerly, seriously. I watched her and thought: here is someone who needs no explanations, no promises of honesty. She just needs me, all of me, right now.
I laid her down and lay down too. I believed I wouldn’t sleep, but I did before the thought finished.
I woke after ninety minutes. Freja slept on. The flat was still.
Mikkel sat at the kitchen table, coffee before him, phone face down. When I came in he slipped it into his pocket, too fast.
I poured water and sat across.
Tell me, I said.
He waited, then spoke.
Ida and I have worked together two years. You remember the project, that bid in November. She went on leave before it ended, and we talked a lot.
I remember. You came home at ten at night. I was seven months along.
Yes. We worked hard.
And?
Nothing more. Just work. He looked up. Signe, I swear there’s nothing between us.
Was or is?
A small pause.
Nothing now, he said.
But there was?
He set the cup down.
Signe…
Yes or no.
It’s not that simple.
I nodded slowly.
I see.
Wait. He reached out; I didn’t move, so he pulled back. It happened once, long ago. Before you were pregnant. A mistake. I ended it.
Once.
Yes.
And today you just happened to be at the café when I needed you.
I went for coffee. Saw her. We talked. I didn’t plan it, I swear.
You didn’t plan it. You simply didn’t come for your own daughter’s discharge. It just happened.
Silence.
I went to the window, the familiar view of trees and cars. Three days earlier I had looked at the same sky from another window.
Mikkel, I said without turning. I won’t fight. I haven’t the strength or the will. Our daughter is three days old. I want you to understand something.
What?
I could have forgiven a mistake if you’d told me yourself, before I saw you through that window. Do you see the difference?
Still silent.
You missed the discharge because sitting there mattered more to you. Not even about Ida. About what you chose.
I faced him.
No decisions today. Today I feed Freja and rest. Tomorrow the same. In a week we’ll talk again. You’ll tell me the whole truth then, not ‘once’ or ‘mistake’. Then I’ll decide.
Signe…
That’s all for now.
He nodded.
The following days felt thick, like wool. Freja slept, ate, stared at the ceiling with the gravity of someone pondering deep matters. Mikkel moved quietly, cooked, fetched diapers twice and my medicine once. I neither sent him away nor called him close.
On the third day Birthe rang.
I answered from habit.
Signe, her voice tight. How are you both?
We’re fine.
Mikkel seems odd. What happened?
Ask him.
Signe…
Birthe, I respect you, but I can’t discuss it now. I’m feeding every three hours and barely sleep. When I’m ready, we will.
A pause.
Very well. I’m sorry.
That surprised me.
I’ll bring soup tomorrow, if I may.
Yes. Thank you.
She came at noon with chicken soup and pastries. She went straight to Freja after removing her coat.
Heavens, what a lovely child.
Freja slept. Birthe stood long by the crib, hands clasped.
May I hold her?
Let her sleep a bit more.
She went to the kitchen, served the soup, made tea with bergamot for herself.
We ate in quiet.
Signe, I won’t meddle, she said at last.
Good.
But I must say this. Mikkel called. He told me what he’d done. I won’t defend him; he’s been a fool in these matters, always lets his head get the better of him. But he’s a good man at heart.
I’m not calling him bad, Birthe.
No?
No. That would be simpler.
She nodded, understanding.
You’ve always been the wiser one. I told him so.
I’m not sure that’s a blessing.
It is. One must be.
Freja cried out. I rose.
Soup’s good. Thank you.
Birthe followed, stood in the doorway as I lifted Freja.
Now?
I passed her over. Birthe held her surely, rocking gently.
Freja, little one…
Freja studied her gravely.
She has Mikkel’s forehead and nose.
I know.
But your eyes.
I watched them. This woman would always be Freja’s grandmother, no matter what. That was unchangeable.
A smile, perhaps just a reflex as the nurse had said, but Freja’s mouth corners moved while she lay in my arms looking at me.
Mikkel saw it too.
Signe, did you see?
Yes.
A smile?
Maybe still a reflex.
Even so.
We stood together in the quiet flat. I thought then, and think now, how strange life can be in a few seconds: standing beside someone you love yet cannot fully trust, or perhaps still do. You can’t say for sure.
I need to tell you something, he whispered.
Go on.
It wasn’t only once.
How many times?
About three months, in the autumn when you were six or seven months pregnant.
Freja yawned and slept.
I stopped it myself after. She wanted more, but I said no, it was wrong.
And the day of the discharge?
She texted that morning wanting to talk. I went thinking it would be quick, that I’d explain we were done because of the baby. But she cried, and I stayed.
You stayed with her but not with me.
He said nothing.
I laid Freja down.
Thank you for being honest.
Signe…
Not now. I need time to think, longer than three days. Can you give me that?
How long?
I don’t know. I need to see if I can live with it, not just forgive.
I understand.
Perhaps you don’t, but all right.
I covered Freja with the blanket. She slept trustingly, as only the innocent can.
A week later I called Lene, my friend from university days who lived elsewhere but wrote often about the baby.
Lene, I need to talk.
I hear it. Tell me.
I told her the essentials. She listened, then asked:
If he’d told you before you saw him, how would you have taken it?
Probably differently.
Exactly. It’s not just what happened, but that he hid it and only admitted when caught.
Yes.
You’re wise. Whatever you choose will be right because it’s your choice.
You always say that.
Because it’s true.
I laughed, the first real laugh that week.
Will you visit soon?
As soon as you’re walking with Freja. I must smell her head.
She smells lovely.
They all do; it’s nature’s trick.
Lene.
What?
Thanks.
Call tomorrow.
I hung up as the short February day faded. I made tea and sat by the window.
Mikkel returned from shopping, put things away, looked in.
Tea? I got mint for you.
Already have some.
Freja asleep?
Yes.
He went to unpack. The sounds were the same as always, yet everything inside had changed, and I wondered if it could ever be the same.
I came to accept things bit by bit. I watched Mikkel take Freja at night so I could rest, how he grew surer holding her, how he spoke to her seriously.
Once at four in the morning I woke to quiet. Went to the room.
Mikkel slept in the chair with Freja in his arms, both at peace. I stood watching, then returned to bed.
I didn’t know my decision yet, but I saw that people are more than one day’s actions. Freja would have this father who missed the discharge and this one who stayed up with her. The same man.
What to do was for me alone to decide.
One evening when Freja was three weeks old, Mikkel came home, made tea, sat with me.
How was work? I asked.
We finished the papers. Did you sleep?
A couple hours.
I went to a psychologist today. First session.
And?
She asked what I felt. I didn’t know. She called it alexithymia, trouble naming emotions.
I know the term.
She says it can be worked on.
He poured the tea, mint for me, bergamot for him.
I don’t expect you to change overnight, I said.
I know. I just want to understand myself, why I lied, why I went there that day. For me, not just for you.
All right.
I want you to see I’m trying.
I do.
He washed the cups, an old habit when uneasy.
I looked at his back, the same back from that café, yet I saw it differently now.
Mikkel.
Yes?
We have more to say. I don’t know how it ends. But I’m still here.
So am I.
Freja stirred. I went to her. She looked at me, and her mouth moved again in that small way.
I picked her up.
Outside, late February snow lay on the sill, soon to melt. I stood with her thinking that life is new each day, each morning a choice, and what matters is what I choose now, looking back on all that happened.
