The Sisterhood

Based on a true story

Prologue

She sensed the warmth of his hand as it gently settled upon her left shoulder, its comforting touch seeping into her being. With each lingering moment, a longing stirred within her, urging for its tender caress to continue. As his hand gradually traversed to her neck, skilful fingers initiated a soothing massage that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her.

Feigning slumber seemed ludicrous in the face of such delight, prompting a soft, contented sigh to escape her lips—a silent plea for the exquisite sensation to persist. And respond it did, as the hand embarked on its journey down her spine, igniting an irresistible heat that beckoned her to surrender to its allure.

When it finally settled upon the small of her back, its touch intensified, stirring an undeniable yearning within her. Temptation danced upon the edge of her consciousness, tempting her to cast aside inhibitions and embrace the passion that simmered between them. Yet, with a subtle shift, she closed the distance between their bodies, silently conveying her desire.

From the small of her back, his hand ventured onward, tracing the curve of her hip until it found rest upon the gentle slope of her pear-shaped bottom. A tremor coursed through his touch, evoking a flutter of anticipation within her. With each tender squeeze, her resolve wavered, succumbing to the irresistible pull of desire.

As two daring fingers ventured to the edge of her labia majora, her breath hitched in anticipation. The urge to surrender to him surged forth, her body responding in kind as his touch grew bolder, eliciting a gasp of pleasure. With a firm grasp, he opened the gateway to ecstasy, paving the way for their shared bliss.

At that moment, as their bodies entwined in mutual fervour, anticipation gave way to sweet release, and the boundaries between them dissolved in a union of longing and passion. Engaging in lovemaking always stirred within her a complex blend of pleasure and apprehension. Despite carefully selecting her partners for their prowess, none could alleviate the lingering sense of unease that accompanied the moment of intimacy. While therapy provided some solace, true liberation from past traumas came from a completely different source.

At times, she could not help but entertain whimsical thoughts—had she perhaps been a praying mantis in a former life? Such musings lingered, adding a curious layer of intrigue to her introspection. One of her former lovers had bestowed upon her the moniker of “black widow,” a title she found perplexing considering her aversion to the colour black, even in the sombre context of funerals. The irony did not escape her, nor did the desire to question him about the origins of such a label. After all, her wardrobe choices hardly aligned with the imagery evoked by the nickname.

Chapter 1

“I’m pregnant.” The words hung in the air, met by a gravid pause of silence. “Congratulations,” came the response, tinged with a hint of surprise and underlying concern. “This will be your fourth, won’t it?”

“Not counting the miscarriages and stillbirths, yes,” she confirmed.

Another silence followed before the voice spoke again, its tone now carrying a mix of empathy and resignation. “My dear, we’ve all endured our share of suffering. It’s the thread that binds us together, lending strength in the face of adversity.”

Yet, despite the attempt at reassurance, there was a palpable unease in the air. “However, you sound less than pleased with your condition, my dear...” the voice trailed off, silently urging the pregnant woman on the other end of the line to share her burden.

“No, it’s not that. It’s... well, I am 47 years old.” Her admission hung in the air, met by a brief silence punctuated by the faint clicks of a computer keyboard.

“Yes, indeed, you are, my dear,” came the measured response. “These days, there’s no reason to be perturbed. I would share your worries if it were your first pregnancy. Besides, I can see a pregnancy at this stage of your life.”

“Do you also see if everything is going to be fine?” she interjected, her voice tinged with apprehension.

There was a pause, followed by a somewhat exasperated sigh. “Hm, well, actually, it would be possible to go down that path, but I always advise against it. First of all, the forecast is by no means accurate. Secondly, we know, and you do as well, that meditating on a positive outcome has a much, much better track record than any prediction can have.”

“Did you do the suggested yoga exercises at least three months before you conceived?” the voice continued.

“Yes, I did,” she confirmed.

“Well, as long as you keep following the proper procedures, I fail to see why there should be any complications.”

“What if it’s a boy?” she pressed further.

“Highly unlikely, my dear, unless you have not followed the well-tested procedures to the point... in which case, yes, you could become the mother of a boy.”

A moment of silence passed before the voice spoke again. “Ah, yes, you seem to have worried about such an unfavourable outcome in all your previous pregnancies.”

“Will you send someone over? Like last time?” the mother-to-be inquired.

“Yes, of course. When would it suit you?”

“Anytime. I am anxious to know for sure.”

“Very well, I’ll do it right away.” Faint mouse clicks and typing on a computer keyboard could be heard for a considerable time before the voice returned. “Expect a call from... oh, you know her, she has been at your side the last time you were expecting... remarkable... However, she will call you within the hour. Is there anything else I can do for you, my dear?” the voice asked benevolently.

“You have to give me a name for the baby,” she insisted.

“Well, there is time for that, but if you insist. When did you conceive?”

“The 20th of March.”

“Oh, well done! That is an auspicious day indeed!” the voice cheered.

“I don’t understand what you mean by that,” she admitted.

“No? Well, the 20th of March is the International Day of Happiness, my dear.”

“I see. I didn’t know that. Thank you. I thought the 22nd of April would be auspicious.”

“You are very welcome. And, as you might know, Ostara happened to fall on the 20th of March this year, too. April 22nd, did you say? Well, naturally, that should be the happiest of all days. That is when we celebrate Gaia, the Mother of Earth. The Mother of all life, actually. So, now, I need to know the approximate time you conceived.”

“At 5:15 PM,” she replied confidently.

“Oh, you sound very sure about this, my dear. During my thirty-odd years in this position, I haven’t heard anyone stating the time of conception to the minute,” the voice remarked, attempting to stifle a giggle.

Silence stretched like an endless chasm, so profound that the caller feared the line had severed. When the voice returned, it was as frigid as the Eastern Antarctic Plateau. “Do you still reside in Switzerland?”

“Yes, I do,” she replied, bracing herself for the impending storm.

“You’ve been with us for almost thirty years, participating in all subsequent annual refresher courses. Therefore, I must assume that you did this deliberately. Why? For goodness sake, WHY?!” The voice erupted with anger.

“I saw it as my last chance,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Another silence ensued, even more profound than before. “I have no record of any authorisation for what you did,” the icy voice declared.

“I didn’t apply for any,” she admitted.

“Why ever not?” the voice demanded.

“I thought, at my age, you wouldn’t grant it anyway,” she explained, her voice tinged with regret.

“That is one of the lamest excuses I have ever heard! Just a minute ago, I told you I saw a pregnancy at this stage in your life. Have I not? You know enough astrology to have figured that out yourself.”

“Yes, I could have, but I forgot. I’m sorry,” she conceded, her heart heavy with remorse.

“I am glad to hear it. But it is quite insufficient for redemption!” the voice remarked sarcastically. “Well, it cannot be undone now. What is the father’s birthdate?”

“10th October 1980, 22:20, Stuttgart, Germany,” she replied.

Silence followed, punctuated only by the sound of typing on a keyboard. “Oh dear,” the voice muttered before repeating, “Oh dear, oh dear. Now, I am not sure you really forgot to check whether there was a pregnancy in your chart at your age. Why, why did you not call before you copulated?”

“Give me a name for our baby, please,” she pleaded, desperate to change the subject.

“Katarina Dorothea,” came the swift reply. “Yes, indeed. The board will have to discuss this immediately. The first name is Katarina—yes, Katarina... and the second name is... Dorothea.”

“Are you sure? ‘Pure’ and ‘gift of God’?” she questioned.

“Yes, I am. ‘A pure gift of God.’ You appear to have done almost everything right. Your biggest mistake—not asking for permission—will be your and your daughter’s downfall. What is your name? – Ah, I see. – Well, I am not surprised about your conduct. – You’ll hear from us. Goodbye.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she replied, “Goodbye.” With a trembling hand, she disconnected the call.

Before rising, she removed a device from the phone that resembled a black box, only tinier, and concealed it within the top drawer of her desk. She had not bothered to inquire about a name should her unborn child turn out to be a boy. The voice would have said, “You name your son whatever pleases you, my dear.”

*

“I am pregnant,” she declared, the words hanging heavy in the air, met only by a profound silence. “Did you hear what I said?” she pressed, her voice tinged with uncertainty.

Silence enveloped them once more, broken only by the soft rustle of their breaths. “Mike?” she called out, desperation creeping into her tone.

Without a word, she reached out, gently cupping his face in her hands and drawing it close to hers. Their eyes met, and as always, the depths of his cornflower blue gaze left her breathless. “You are going to be a father,” she whispered, her voice filled with love and anticipation.

Salty tears blurred the blue of his eyes, leaving her to wonder whether they were tears of joy or sorrow. “I...” he began, but his words dissolved into sobs, rendering speech impossible.

With tenderness, she drew him closer, guiding his head until it rested against her shoulder. Their cheeks touched, his stubbles grazing her soft skin in a rhythmic cadence. She offered a gentle pat on his back, a futile attempt to soothe the storm of emotions raging within him. All she could do was hold him close, patiently waiting for his turmoil to subside.

*

“I am pregnant,” she announced into the phone, the weight of her words echoing through the line.

“Good grief, Regula!” came the stunned response. “I don’t know what to say...”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she interrupted, her voice wavering with remorse. “I don’t know what made me say all those dreadful things. I feel like a prize idiot. I want you to know that I love you both. Can you forgive me, please?”

“We forgave you a long time ago, child,” her mother assured her, her voice softening with understanding. Let bygones be bygones. That’s interesting news! How did that happen? I thought you couldn’t get pregnant anymore. Who’s the father?”

“Mike, of course! Who else?!” she replied, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone.

“Well, we haven’t been in touch for a while, have we? Mike? The same Mike we quarrelled about?” her mother questioned.

“Yes, the same Mike. The one Petra dubbed toy boy,” she confirmed.

“I see,” her mother murmured thoughtfully. “And as to how it happened... Would you like me to go into details?”

“Don’t be daft!” her mother scolded. “What happened to that other fellow? What was his name? Markus, something or other, right?”

“Yeah, Markus. Why do you bring him up? He was practically gay. But was reluctant to admit it,” she explained, somewhat irritated.

“Was he? I would never have thought. He looked rather macho to me,” her mother mused.

“Perceptions can be misleading, Mother. No one would think you’re a lesbian, right?” she replied, a touch of irony in her voice.

“No, but then I had to hide it from the world all my life, hadn’t I?” her mother sighed.

“You and Petra could’ve come out years ago, couldn’t you?” she ventured.

“I guess we could have. But after—oh, dear—more than fifty years—living the covert life of a same-sex couple has become second nature to us,” her mother admitted.

“As long as you’re both happy with this arrangement. Who’s to judge, right?” she conceded.

“Right. This Markus was filthy rich, wasn’t he?” her mother inquired.

“He had to be. He was an investment banker,” Regula replied.

“Was?” her mother echoed.

“Oh, haven’t you heard? He died of a sudden heart attack. Just a few weeks before I bumped into Mike,” she revealed.

“No, I didn’t know that. Hm, I’m wondering...” her mother trailed off.

“Please, don’t,” Regula interjected. “He did change his will in my favour. If that’s what you’re wondering about. But it will be some time until I get anything from his estate. His brother contests the will. He claims I had an evil influence on Markus.” – “What kind of evil influence?” – “I let him fuck me in the ass.”

“Regula!!! Language!!!” her mother scolded.

“The little homophobe’s words, not mine,” she retorted.

“Still. You shouldn’t use language like that,” her mother admonished.

“Yes, Mother,” she conceded.

“But that wasn’t what I was wondering about.”

“I know. Please, let us change the subject. Shall we?” Regula suggested.

“Very well. When is my new granddaughter due?” her mother inquired.

“Around Yule,” she replied, holding her breath.

Silence followed, pregnant with worry and anticipation. Then, her mother’s voice returned, laced with concern. “Please, tell me you didn’t go through with your plan. If you do, you will have to face the consequences. Oh, child, why?”

“You worry too much, Mother. Everything is going to be just fine. I already told them,” she reassured her.

“What did they say?” her mother pressed, her breath held in anxious anticipation.

“They said they see a pregnancy at this stage of my life in my chart,” she replied.

“Well, it’s okay then, isn’t it?” her mother hoped against hope.

“Yes, Mother. Please, stop worrying. I’ll keep you in the loop. Bye,” she bid her farewell.

“Not so fast! Are you still there?” her mother called out.

“Yes,” Regula replied, her heart heavy with emotion.

“They must have given you a name. Please, tell me what it is,” her mother urged.

“Katarina Dorothea,” she revealed.

“Beautiful and so fitting. – Petra, who listened to every word we said, would like to talk to you, too. I’ll pass you on. Goodbye, Regula,” her mother concluded.

“Goodbye, Mother,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

“Regula? Here is your other mother speaking,” Petra’s voice came through the line.

“Hi, Mom. How are you?” she greeted her, attempting to keep her tone light.

“Never mind how I am. At your age, you shouldn’t have become pregnant again. And I don’t give a hoot whether it’s in your chart or not! But what I do care about, and a lot, is you,” Petra scolded gently.

“Will you please stop calling me old?!” Regula protested, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice.

“You will give birth after your 48th birthday, child!” Petra persisted, her concern palpable.

“Halle Berry was my age when she had her second daughter. Holly Hunter and Kelly Preston were also about the same age. And Beverly D’Angelo was 49 when she had her twins,” she pointed out, trying to ease the tension in the conversation.

“Yes, yes, Gianna Nannini was 54, and Brigitte Nielsen is 54 and will give birth to her fifth child around June this year. I know, Regula, but these are exceptions,” Petra countered firmly. “All I ask of you is to make sure Katarina Dorothea will be your last child.”

“It will be. I promise.”

“Fine, thank you,” came the relieved response. “Same procedures as always, I presume?”

“Yes, Priska Sutter has already examined me and is happy to report that everything is as it should be,” she confirmed, grateful for the understanding tone of the conversation.

“I am glad to hear it,” came the warm response. “I agree with your mother. We let bygones be bygones. So, when can we meet this Mike fellow? We want to know what our new granddaughter will look like. The first child of any man always looks like his father. That’s why none of your daughters looks like you.”

“Uh, that was a bit below the belt, don’t you think, Mom?” she interjected, feeling a twinge of discomfort. Anyway, he is not into meeting people. And that goes for parents, too. I can’t and won’t make him see you if he doesn’t want to.”

“I see. Well, sometimes I think you are still ashamed of your parents being old dykes...” her mother’s voice trailed off, probing into sensitive territory.

“Mom! Stop it!” she snapped, her patience wearing thin. “You know this isn’t true! Besides, I told him a long time ago that my parents are a same-sex couple.”

“And? How did he take it?” her mother inquired, curiosity evident in her tone.

“On the chin. He said, ‘Wow! Sounds cool.’ or something like that,” she recounted, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“So, he’s not prejudiced?” her mother probed further.

“No, not at all. He never was. He’s very open-minded... well, open-minded about homosexuality. He’s a bit of a bone-head when it comes to other things... but aren’t all men?” she remarked with a hint of humour.

“Your mother and I wouldn’t know, remember? Anyhow, when can we see him?” her mother pressed, eager to meet the man who had captured her daughter’s heart.

“Let’s wait until my pregnancy is more visible. In four to five weeks, drop by unannounced. Okay?” she suggested.

“That’s the ticket! Goodbye, Love. It was good to hear your voice again,” her mother bid farewell, the warmth evident in her tone.

“Same, same. Goodbye, Mom,” she replied, feeling a sense of gratitude for the connection with her family despite the occasional friction.

*

“She is pregnant,” Reto declared, breaking the silence.

“Who is pregnant?” came the incredulous response.

“Regula Andermatt,” Reto revealed.

“You’re not serious? She must be what, fifty, or close to it. No woman in her right mind gets pregnant at that age. By the way... How on earth do you know that?! Are you still keeping an eye on her?” the questioning continued, tinged with suspicion.

“Sure. Why shouldn’t I?” Reto replied calmly.

“She has been proven innocent,” Corinne countered.

“Yeah, three times with as many deceased husbands and at least four long-time lovers found dead after she split up with them,” Reto pointed out.

“So? She is unlucky with her men. That’s not a crime,” Corinne argued.

“No, being unlucky is not a crime. But it raises eyebrows if you meet someone who lost seven partners to accidents, sudden heart attacks and even suicides, doesn’t it?” Reto pressed the weight of the evidence apparent.

Silence followed, the gravity of the situation sinking in.

“Putting it that way, it does... Oi! You didn’t answer my question: How do you know she’s pregnant? Are you the father?” Corinne demanded.

“I didn’t know you’re a psychic, Corinne,” Reto replied sarcastically.

“Pull the other one – It’s got bells and whistles on it!” Corinne retorted, her scepticism evident.

“No, of course, I’m not the father. I would never cheat on Sandra. And you know that. Although, she’s quite a beauty, isn’t she?” Reto remarked casually, trying to lighten the mood.

“That’s a very sexist remark! I shall report you to your wife,” Corinne scolded.

“You’d be late. I have no secrets. She agrees with me, by the way. I followed Priska Sutter to Andermatt’s house,” Reto revealed, shifting the focus back to the subject at hand.

“Priska Sutter? The name rings a bell. Is she a midwife? What possible crime could a midwife be about to commit for a police officer of your standing to follow her around town?” Corinne inquired, her curiosity piqued.

“She only assists in births resulting in baby girls,” Reto disclosed.

“That’s preposterous! No midwife delivers baby girls only!” Corinne exclaimed, disbelief colouring her tone.

“Exactly! That’s why I obtained permission to investigate her,” Reto explained.

Silence followed as Corinne processed the revelation.

“How did you find out about her helping to deliver only girls?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“I didn’t. My mother did. She always reads the obituary and birth section in the St Galler Tagblatt. That’s why she is always up-to-date with the latest gossip flying around town,” Reto confessed, a hint of embarrassment colouring his tone.

“They do not print the name of the midwife, though,” Corinne pointed out.

“Of course not, silly! But most newborns have got two grandmothers, haven’t they?” Reto replied.

“That makes sense. My aunt is also a fountain of information about the community,” Corinne acknowledged with a smile.

“Come to think of it,” she went on, “I could ask her what she knows about Regula Andermatt and Priska Sutter.”

“Yes, please do. Whatever information I can glean will help in my investigation. Our Dear Leader didn’t sign the warrant to bug their phones,” Reto agreed.

“That shouldn’t come as a surprise even to you, boss. First, you are flogging a dead horse: there’s no case around Regula Andermatt. Secondly, tapping the phones of a midwife and a jeweller is not very common,” Corinne pointed out.

“Jeweller? That’s a bit far-fetched. Andermatt makes and sells hand-crafted necklaces out of crystals and gemstones. Hardly a product any self-respecting jeweller would lend his name to,” Reto countered.

“For your information, you ignoramus: They are called charMs. Come to think of it, she must be selling a lot of them to afford the way she lives,” Corinne declared haughtily.

“Not necessarily. She can have other sources of income. Have you bought one or two of those charms for yourself?” Reto teased, attempting to lighten the mood. – “Attracting male suitors would be my guess,” he went on mockingly.

“No one’s interested in your guesses!” Corinne shot back angrily.

Corinne Zimmermann, a millennial grappling with weight issues, found herself perpetually frustrated by diets that seemed to add pounds to her hips while diminishing her bust. Whenever she caught her reflection in the mirror, she could not help but feel disheartened by her cone-shaped figure. Despite the growing awareness of fat-shaming in Swiss society, she could not shake the feeling that men her age preferred women to resemble Scarlett Johansson rather than Rebel Wilson.

To boost her confidence, Corinne turned to fashion options from Dia & Co, Marina Rinaldi, and other plus-size designers. These stylish ensembles helped her navigate her self-consciousness, allowing her to feel more comfortable in her skin. Reto, her colleague, recognised that Corinne likely needed help to afford such clothing on her salary. However, out of respect for Swiss etiquette, which frowns upon discussing financial matters even among friends, Reto refrained from prying. He genuinely admired Corinne and was genuinely pleased to see her enjoying a lifestyle that suited her.

When Reto noticed the sadness etched on his colleague’s face, he immediately regretted his callous remark. “I’m sorry,” he apologised.

“It’s okay,” Corinne replied with a resigned sigh. “I confront reality every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. With a body mass index of 42, there’s no hiding it, even beneath the designer clothes I wear. You should see me without them,” she joked, offering a small wink to Reto, who struggled to shake the mental image.

“And, if you must know, Regula Andermatt’s necklaces don’t work,” she added with a wry smile, a hint of self-deprecation in her tone.

Reto felt relieved as the tension dissipated. Clearing his throat, he said, “I would appreciate it if you could ask your aunt or if I could have a word with her.”

Corinne nodded in agreement. “I’ll speak with her first, then you can pick her brain while I prepare dinner for us. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good to me. Thank you, Corinne,” Reto replied gratefully. He anticipated the dinner with his colleague, knowing that Corinne was an excellent cook.

*

“Regula is pregnant,” Mike announced during their traditional weekend lunch with his parents.

His father’s reaction was sudden and alarming. With a gasp, he sucked in a pea or two, which lodged in his throat, obstructing his airway. Frantically coughing and retching brought no relief. Mike and his stepmother rushed to his aid. Andrea swiftly unbuttoned his shirt collar while Mike positioned himself behind his father to administer the Heimlich manoeuvre. After the peas were dislodged and Hans Winterberg, a barrel-chested man in his very late sixties with a shock of white hair, finally regained his voice, he exclaimed with joy, “I am going to be a granddad again! Congratulations, son!”

“And it’s about time too, Mike,” Andrea Winterberg, a woman of uncertain age with an aristocratic face, remarked as they resumed their seats at the table.

Curious about the sudden change in Mike’s stance on having children, she leaned forward and asked, “What made you change your mind about having children?” Her inquiry was genuine, reflecting both curiosity and concern.

However, Mike remained silent, his gaze fixed on his half-empty plate, showing no inclination to respond to her question.

Hans placed his enormous hand on Andrea’s delicate one and gently squeezed it. Andrea winced in pain, attempting to retract her hand from the vice-like grip. After exchanging meaningful looks, they returned their attention to their meal.

“You truly are a master chef, Hans. Your cooking surpasses Cook’s by far,” Andrea complimented.

“Thank you, my dear. I often dreamt of becoming a chef in a prestigious French restaurant adorned with at least a dozen Michelin stars,” Hans admitted wistfully.

“You could have outshone Joël Robuchon, darling,” Andrea chimed in, her tone filled with admiration.

Mike felt a wave of nausea wash over him. The sight of his stepmother’s obsequious behaviour towards his father only intensified his discomfort. Suppressing a disdainful look, he reluctantly glanced at Andrea. Despite his aversion, he could not deny that she looked stunning in her outrageously expensive French designer attire. Yet, he could not help but cynically think that such exorbitant spending on appearances could turn even a scarecrow into Germany’s Next Top Model.

Turning his gaze to his father, Mike could not help but notice the older man’s penchant for designer clothes as well. However, unlike Andrea, whose elegance seemed effortless, his father’s attire often resembled a barrel swathed in fabric.

“I say, old girl! – Steady on!” Hans exclaimed jovially, clearly pleased with the false flattery. “He has 32 Michelin stars to his name.”

“Yes, indeed he does. And the best, and I might add only, female chef, Anne-Sophie Pic, has got a mere sixth of this paragon of French cuisine. I’m certain she is much better than her male colleagues. But then it’s a man’s world we live in,” Andrea sighed dramatically.

“And they are both French, of course,” Mike added acidly, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Fairness is an Old English word, not a French one.”

“And what do you mean to imply by that?” Andrea asked, fixing her stepson with an icy look. As a fervent Francophile, she loathed anyone making fun of her beloved culture.

“Nothing else but the motto of the Order of the Garter,” Mike replied with a smirk on his stubbled face.

“And what, pray, is that?” Andrea persisted, hoping for a recitation of the original French version, which Mike was clearly reluctant to provide.

“Well, I’m sure you know it by heart, Andrea. But to refresh your memory… it says ‘shame on him who thinks evil of it,’” Mike retorted.

“Drole, the French original, ′Honi soit qui mal y pense,′ is so much more majestic than the English translation for the peasants,” Andrea declared pompously. “I’m sure a woman whispered it into a man’s ear who then told Édouard III.”

Mike reminded himself that his stepmother was a staunch feminist, believing in the superiority of women over men. However, she was also pragmatic enough to acknowledge the current rule of the “mentally denser sex.”

“You mean Edward III, don’t you?” Hans interjected, unaware of the subtleties and puns.

“Indeed, I do, love. But only peasants and commoners spoke English in those days. Not a lot has changed since then, I might add,” Andrea remarked, signalling the end of the discussion, as Mike and Hans knew better than to argue with her on this tiresome subject.

“Mike is right, you know,” Hans interjected, prompting Andrea to roll her eyes but still listen attentively to her husband’s words. “As a German, I wouldn’t even get ten Michelin stars. I would have to renounce my citizenship and become Swiss, for example. – That reminds me, Mike. Have you passed your Swiss naturalisation test yet?” Hans inquired, shifting the conversation.

“No, I didn’t even apply for it. As you know, Father, I have to live twelve years in Switzerland to be eligible for naturalisation,” Mike explained, his mood somewhat souring at his father’s lack of understanding.

Hans Winterberg may have lacked intellect in some areas, but his intuition often compensated for it. “I know you think I am a peasant because I never had, and never wanted to have, for that matter, what you call a higher education,” Hans said. Mike instantly felt a pang of shame for his previous thoughts. He prodded at the food on his plate listlessly, grateful that the subject of his impending fatherhood was temporarily shelved.

“Is something wrong with your food, Mike?” Andrea’s observant gaze bore into him, and Mike felt the weight of her scrutiny. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair before replying, “No, it’s delicious. I don’t have much of an appetite right now.”

“Is something eating you?” Andrea pressed, her concern evident.

Mike hesitated for a moment before offering a partial truth, “Well, life in Switzerland is quite different from what I was accustomed to in Germany. I’m still adjusting.”

“After almost seven years, you should have gotten used to the ways of the Aborigines of Europe,” she teased, attempting to lighten the mood.

Mike winced inwardly at her choice of words. “I wish you wouldn’t call them that, Andrea. They’re different, but they’re friendly, hard-working people.”

“So are we Germans, aren’t we?” Andrea countered.

“We were, much like the Swiss about forty years ago,” Hans interjected abruptly, his annoyance evident as he finished the last morsel of his steak with a loud clatter of cutlery.

Andrea wisely refrained from further discussion, knowing her husband’s tendency to expound on the perceived decline of Germany and its workforce. She silently hoped the topic would be dropped soon.

Mike seemed eager to escape another of his father’s lengthy monologues, so he rose abruptly from the table. “Sorry, but I have to leave. I want to visit Pat,” he announced, his tone polite but firm. “Thank you for the lovely lunch.”

“It’s always a pleasure to have you with us, Mike,” his father replied warmly, rising to accompany his son to the door. With a smile, Hans approached Mike, meeting him halfway around the large table.

As the two men exchanged pleasantries, Andrea’s expression momentarily furrowed with confusion before brightening with comprehension. Rising gracefully from her seat, she joined them, completing the familial trio. With an air of familiarity and affection, she enveloped them both in a tight embrace. It was a ritual they had practised for years, holding the embrace for a moment before releasing each other.

The scene was reminiscent of a close-knit rugby team, a comment that had elicited laughter during one family gathering. But for the Winterbergs, it was just another expression of their bond as a family.

As Mike prepared to leave, Hans Winterberg, ever the hospitable host, reached for a bottle of fine red wine and pressed it into his son’s hand. They shared another brief hug at the entrance, a customary gesture of affection. Andrea, always close by her husband’s side, nestled under his arm to shield herself from the chilly breeze, her eyes following Mike as he made his way to his BMW 5X SUV.

As Mike’s head disappeared into the car, Andrea could not resist teasing him. “I suppose you want to phone Julia right away, don’t you?” she quipped. Hans chuckled in response, revealing his true motive for not prolonging Mike’s visit. “You were surely wondering why I didn’t ask him to stay a bit longer, right? That was the reason. I want to talk to Julia right away. She must know more about our new grandchild.”

“And do you think it’s going to be a boy?” Andrea inquired, playing along with her husband’s traditional preferences. Hans nodded eagerly, sharing her hope. But Andrea could not resist a subtle reminder. “You seem to be in a hurry. You forgot to remind him to visit his mother.”

Hans’s reaction was more animated than expected. “Damn!” he exclaimed, realising the potential repercussions of Mike neglecting to see Susanne. “If Susanne learns that Mike was here but didn’t bother to see her, there will be hell to pay and no mistake.”

But Andrea reassured him with a sly remark. “Well, he said he went to see Pat, didn’t he? Pat will take him by the hand and lead him to his mother if need be.” Hans burst into laughter at the image, his delight filling the air. Andrea, with a raised eyebrow, silently conveyed her disapproval of such boisterous behaviour.

“Pat would do that without giving him a chance to say no!” Hans wheezed between laughs, the humour of the situation not lost on him.

Andrea, who remained unmarried until she met Hans, always found it astonishing how a man of Hans Winterberg’s stature could still be apprehensive of his ex-wife’s anger, even after nearly thirty years since their divorce. Yet, they maintained communication and occasionally reunited with her and her latest partner. “Well, not all of them were ‘toyboys,’” Andrea corrected herself. Her thoughts wandered further. “What does she do between relationships?” Andrea pondered.

As Hans ushered her into the study, Andrea’s mind fixated on Susanne Winterberg. Despite their shared surname, Susanne’s reasons for keeping it differed from Andrea’s. Who just wanted to be firmly associated with her wealthy husband. For Susanne, it was a name associated with fame and recognition in Germany. They were the same age, but any further similarities ended there. Andrea was slender, while Susanne possessed natural curves that drew attention effortlessly. She evoked comparisons to Kim Novak in Andrea’s mind.

In Susanne’s presence, Andrea felt compelled to perform admirably, showcasing their supposed friendship. However, Susanne lacked Andrea’s acting prowess, unable to conceal her satisfaction at Hans marrying someone less glamorous. Hans, not known for discretion, likely shared Andrea’s Kim Novak comparison with Susanne, prompting her to quip, “Whenever I see you, you remind me of Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.”

Both women made a concerted effort to demonstrate their amicable relationship whenever Julia and Mike were around. Truth be told, had they failed to do so, Hans would have intervened. He harboured deep remorse for single-handedly dismantling his marriage and witnessing the collateral emotional and mental anguish inflicted upon innocent bystanders. This experience led him to vow never to engage in conflict again. He steadfastly upheld this vow, even amidst the physical toll of severe stomach ulcers. Hans opted to internalise rather than externalise emotions, particularly in the presence of his family.

To shield Julia and Mike from further distress, Andrea and Susanne silently agreed never to quarrel in their presence.

Hans, somewhat challenged by new technologies, dialled his daughter’s phone number using a retro telephone with a rotary dial. Andrea could not help but wonder how he managed to manoeuvre his large index finger, second only to his dexterous middle finger, into the tiny holes of the dial wheel.

“Julia? - Oh, Miguel... - Hola, puedo hablar con Julia por favour,” stammered Hans, attempting one of his few Spanish sentences. Observing her husband’s struggle, Andrea suppressed a smile, knowing he would eagerly pass her the receiver at the earliest opportunity.

Proficient in English, Spanish, and French, in addition to her native language, Andrea was prepared to assist. Beads of sweat began to form on Hans’ forehead as he attempted to get a word in edgewise, but Miguel seemed determined to monopolise the conversation. Hans’ frustration mounted as Miguel persisted in delivering his message. Hans eventually relented and handed the receiver to his wife, resignedly stating, “You talk to him.”

Andrea wasted no time waiting for Miguel to pause. Swiftly removing her pearl earrings and placing the receiver to her left ear, she interjected, ”Hola, soy Andrea. Hans me pasó el teléfono. Ya sabes que su español no es apto para conversaciones extensas. ¿Está Julia disponible?"

Hans observed his wife with a hint of envy as she skillfully navigated the conversation with Miguel. He longed to possess her multilingual abilities. Meanwhile, Miguel seemed to have restarted his speech as Andrea spent the next ten minutes nodding along, responding with a series of ”sí,” ”oh,” and ”entiendo.”

“What is it?!” Hans whispered forcefully, prompting Andrea to shush him and focus on Miguel’s rapid Spanish. However, Hans’s attempts to grab her attention with taps on her shoulder, tugging at her elbow and grimacing, only served as unwelcome distractions.

After enduring these interruptions heroically for a while, Andrea decided enough was enough. ”Miguel, un momento. ¿Podrías dejar de hablar un momento?" she interjected haltingly. There was no need to cover the mouthpiece; Miguel only spoke Spanish.

Exasperated, Andrea finally exploded, “Would you PLEASE STOP nudging, plucking, and grimacing at me, Hans?!” she shouted, her frustration evident. “Miguel is rather agitated, speaking Spanish at top speed. I need to focus to understand what he wants to tell me. Do you understand?”

“Sure, I do. I can sense something’s wrong, and I want to know what it is,” Hans replied, unfazed by his wife’s annoyance.

Before Hans could go on, Andreas interjected, “Julia has run away with Ana. And—”

“I knew it!” Hans interrupted again, bombarding Andrea with a barrage of questions. Andrea, still holding the receiver, attempted to shake some sense into her husband.

An onlooker would have found amusement in the sight of a delicate woman of 112 pounds attempting to affect a barrel-chested hulk of 322 pounds. Fatigued, Andrea released her grip on Hans, realising she tired quickly these days.

Andrea apologised to Miguel for the interruption and resumed the call, which lasted about half an hour, before bidding Julia’s fiancé farewell.