The annual Christmas Party, once more. She was seventeen, sitting at the high table.

She’d asked her mother to be let off but received mock surprise for an answer.

‘Why, darling? You’d enjoy an evening out, surely? You’ve been sitting at home for months.’

Too true. Certainly, she’d been sitting at home. It had been sixty-three days and nine hours since she last saw Mick. Every day Gun-Britt had collected her from Vetlanda in the tiny Renault. The afternoon walks had been forbidden, on the grounds that trust had been abused.

‘I don’t want to go.’

Her mother didn’t answer. She just went into the dressing-room to find a suitable frock for her daughter’s evening out.

‘Don’t be silly, darling. Of course you’ll join us.’

Sibylla was sitting on her bed, watching her mother pick and choose in the wardrobe.

‘I’ll come if I’m allowed to sit with the other young people.’

Beatrice was stunned by this unheard-of ultimatum.

‘Now, what’s the reason for this, may I ask?’

‘They’re my age, that’s why.’

Her mother turned round with an odd expression on her face. Subjected to her mother’s gaze, Sibylla’s heart started pounding. She had made up her mind, telling herself that she wasn’t alone any more and could always run to Mick. In seven months’ time, she would be eighteen years old and free to do what she liked. Until then she was going to fight for every inch. Her voice was quite steady.

‘If I can’t sit with the others I’ll just stay here.’

Her mother could not believe her ears. This was, of course, an incredible statement. It worried Sibylla that she couldn’t interpret the look on her mother’s face. A sense of unease began tingling under her skin. She felt just the tiniest whiff of fear.

‘You know perfectly well that this is the most important evening of the year for your father and me. Now you want to ruin it. Don’t you ever consider anyone except yourself?’

The pendulum was swinging her mother’s way. Beatrice was ready to trigger a major explosion and there was no doubt at all about who would suffer the consequences. Suddenly, real fear gripped her. It must have shown, because her mother changed her tone.

‘There now, we’ll talk about this when we get back home.’

Beatrice sailed out of the room, having successfully crushed her daughter’s will.

The Sales Manager sat to her left. Mr Forsenström, the CE, was enthroned in the central seat.

Sitting at the high table in her party frock, Sibylla felt strange. The whole room was humming, somehow. The noise from the hall came in waves and even her neighbours’ talk reached her only intermittently. She had not touched her food yet, but the others had finished. Her mother was smiling and proposing toasts round the table, but every time her eyes met Sibylla’s the corners of her mouth turned downwards, as if pulled by gravity. The anger radiating from Beatrice was transmitted in Sibylla’s direction in such forceful pulses that she thought the glasses in the way might shatter.

But it was exactly at this moment, as Sibylla was waiting for whatever elaborate punishment was in store for her, that she felt strongly that enough was enough. Her anger welled up with unexpected violence. That woman had turned her existence into a never-ending imprisonment. In Sibylla’s eyes her mother was transformed into an absurd monster.

Yes, she had been born out of that body. So what? It hadn’t been her choice. It was a mystery why God should have allowed this woman to bear a child at all. All her mother had wanted was living proof of the Forsenström family’s general excellence. A child confirmed that everything proceeded according to plan.

In fact, nothing worked properly. Sibylla suddenly saw how much her mother enjoyed every step in the obedience-chastisement-punishment routine that had become established in their home. Beatrice manipulated her daughter’s fear, relishing her ownership of the child.

‘How are you getting on at school then, Sibylla?’

The Sales Manager was asking his annual question. He was about as interested in her answer as in some muck on his shoe.

‘So kind of you to ask,’ she said loudly. ‘Mostly we just hang out, boozing and fucking.’

He nodded benignly. A second later, his tiny mind registered her answer and he looked the other way, plainly at a loss. The high table guests stopped speaking as if on pain of death. Her father was looking straight at her, his expression more confused than upset. Maybe he wasn’t quite sure what ‘fucking’ meant. Her mother’s facial colour shifted towards purple.

The whole social carousel was spinning wildly around her, but Sibylla felt calm and in control. The Sales Manager’s glass of brandy was standing within easy reach and she lifted it in a toast to her mother.

‘Cheers, Mummy. I just thought of something. Why don’t you get up on a chair and sing a Christmas song for everyone? It would be so nice.’

She emptied the glass. By now the entire room had fallen silent. She took the opportunity to stand up and address them all.

‘Hey, what do you think? Wouldn’t it be great if dear Beatrice here sang a little song for us? Full of Christmas joy!’

Every single eye in the room was riveted on her.

‘You don’t want to? Why, don’t be shy, darling Mummy. You mustn’t worry. Why not simply go for that rather foul little ditty you hum in the kitchen most nights?’

Finally, her father broke free from his state of paralysis and spoke, his powerful voice echoing through the room.

‘Girl, SIT DOWN!’

She turned to him.

‘You talking to me, Daddy? For you are my Dad, aren’t you? I remember seeing you around at home, like at suppertime. How are you? My name is Sibylla.’

He was staring at her, slack-jawed.

‘This is getting really boring. I think I’ll be off. Have a lovely evening, everyone!’

Seventy-six pairs of eyes followed her as she walked through the silent room, all the way from the podium past the tables to the door that led to freedom. When she closed the door behind her, she breathed in deeply and felt truly fresh air filling her lungs for the first time in her life.