Each morning the same routine. First shower. Then shave. Then he’d make breakfast, consisting of two eggs, a slice of rye bread with butter and cheese, and a big cup of coffee. Always the same breakfast, which he would eat in front of the TV. Another knock on the door. Annoyed, Frans got up and went to open it.‘Hi, Frans.’ His son was standing on the doorstep with that harsh look in his eye that had become so familiar.Frans could no longer remember a time when everything had been different. But he had to accept what he couldn’t change, and this was one of those things. Only in his dreams would he feel that small hand holding his; a faint memory from a time long, long ago.With a barely audible sigh he moved aside to let his son come in.‘Hi, Kjell,’ he said. ‘What brings you here today to visit your old father?’‘Erik Frankel,’ said Kjell coldly, glaring at his father as if expecting a particular reaction.‘I’m in the middle of breakfast. Come on in.’Kjell followed him into the living room, taking a good look around.
