Page 43 of Hidden in Memories
“Was there something in particular?” Hanna says. “Can I help you?”
“There’s ... I wanted to ask a question.”
“Ask away.”
“A journalist called me a few minutes ago—from one of the tabloids. She wants to interview me. About Mom.”
Hanna looks up at the ceiling. That sounds like a seriously bad idea. Filip has just lost his mother, and now the papers want to expose his misery to the whole population of Sweden.
“I don’t know what to do,” Filip continues. “The reporter said it would be great if I got to describe Mom in my own words—it would help me to say goodbye.”
Hanna wants to tell him that there is only one reason why the press is chasing him—to sell hard copies of their papers and boost the number of clicks online.
But pointing that out feels too brutal.
“So how do you feel about that?” she says, adopting a more diplomatic approach. “Are you comfortable with the idea of talking publicly about your mom?”
“I think so, but what if I say something stupid? I want to ... honor her memory.”
“It’s lovely that you’re thinking along those lines.”
Silence again.
“I know Mom loved me,” Filip says eventually, his voice thick with tears. “She just wasn’t very good at ... showing it.”
“How do you mean?”
“We argued about my future all the time. She wanted me to study, like she’d done. To pursue a career in finance or something equally prestigious, where I could earn a lot of money and have a fancy title.”
Filip’s description of his relationship with his mother sounds all too familiar—an echo of Hanna’s own frustrating discussions with her parents. They have always stressed the importance of getting a “good” job, as a lawyer or a doctor. They have never fully accepted her decision to join the police.
But at least she has Lydia, who always supported her.
Filip seems so alone.
“And what do you want?” Hanna asks. “What do you dream of?”
“Certainly not being like Mom.”
The answer is so raw and honest that Hanna gets a lump in her throat. She sits back down and moves her phone to the other hand.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful. Mom made a career for herself and earned a lot of money, but she was never around when I was growing up. I was looked after by a string of childminders, and by the time Mom came home, she was tired and wanted to be left in peace. I played basketball, and I don’t think she saw more than two or three matches during all those years at high school.”
Filip takes a deep breath. His voice is steadier when he goes on.
“If Emily and I ever have kids, I want to be at home with them. Have a job where I finish at five o’clock so we can all have dinner together. It might sound terrible, but I don’t want to be like Mom, even if she was hugely successful.”
“And you argued about that?”
“Mm.”
Filip sounds eager now, as if he is desperate to explain why things were so difficult between him and his mother.
“The thing is, it was so important for her to follow in her father’s footsteps. She talked about him all the time. Even after he died she was still determined to prove herself in his eyes, and as far as she was concerned, it was obvious that I would do the same. Third generation and all that, if you know what I mean.” He gives a humorless laugh. “It all went wrong, of course.”
Hanna pictures her own mother. That constantly reproachful expression. All the reprimands over the years. The feeling of never really being able to live up to her parents’ expectations.
“Everyone has to make their own choices,” she says. “Your parents don’t get to determine what you do. It’s your life, not theirs.”
