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She looks more genuinely horrified by this than she did by immigration.

“You’re getting married before you go on a date.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds rushed.”

“It is rushed,” Astrid says.

Tova points at her. “You know it’s weird.”

“I know.”

Then Tova asks, “If you get married, are you my dad?”

“No.”

The answer comes out fast.

She looks up. “You don’t want to be?”

“Call me whatever feels right. Colt’s been working fine.”

“Dad would be weird.”

“Excellent. Strong agreement.”

“And you’re not my boss?”

“No.”

“Can you ground me?”

“No.”

“If Mamma isn’t home?”

“I don’t know yet. Your mother’s your parent. The rest we’d work out, and anything that affects you, we’d talk to you about.”

Tova picks at one green thumbnail. “What if you fight about me?”

Astrid answers first. “We might disagree about things that affect you. That still does not make it yours to fix.”

Tova looks at me. I nod.

“You don’t get drafted into adult fights. You don’t carry messages. And making either of us feel better isn’t your job.”

Her face changes. She nods once.

I don’t ask why that answer matters.

Then she says, “If I want Sweden, does that change?”

“No,” Astrid says. Immediate. Clean.

Tova turns to me.

“No.”

“You said we could.”