Later she makes a note of what they need and does a bit of shopping, always aware of just how much she can spend. She tidies up the house, airs out the bedrooms and dining room, sweeps the floor and goes down on her hands and knees to scrub it, because that's how you reach all the corners. Anna and the rest of the things that have been put off until later boil down to a bed that she makes first thing in the morning, a washing machine full of clothes that she picks up off the floor, and that later she will hang one by one on a small balcony that looks out over a light-filled patio. The neighbors know his voice by now, even though he doesn't have much contact with them. The husband's voice is irritating, both inside and outside his living quarters. There is always housework to be done, even in a small apartment.

Afterwards she had to cook dinner, even though she had a dislocated arm. It was almost nine o'clock when she turned the key in the lock, and as soon as she walked in she got her first beating. As it got late Anna kept working, wrapping presents with a smile on her face. Anna answered, 'Not a chance!' Her job helped to pay the bills, to buy clothes for the boy, school books for the boy, and private lessons for the boy. But that afternoon the husband kept walking until he walked right into the store and begged Anna to take off that ridiculous uniform and come home. The son also got used to eating canteen food at school. He often went to the pub to drown his sorrows. One day he zipped up his coat and ran down the stairs at full speed cursing his wife and his job, but especially his wife.

The husband waited at the table, his arms crossed, and after a tense quarter of an hour of waiting he ended up with his head in his hands. That, and that there were bits of soap in the sink. Husband would go to the kitchen, and the only thing he noticed was that the kitchen was as cold as death.

L'escriptora morta by Núria Añó