I look down the list of commitments that can’t be put off. The longer the list, the more productive I consider my day to be. Many of the tasks are things I promised to do the day before or during the week, but which I haven’t yet done. That’s why the list keeps growing, until it makes me so nervous that I decide to scrap the whole thing and start again. And then I realize that nothing on the list is actually very important.

There’s something that isn’t on the list, though, something I’m definitely not going to forget: finding out where Jacob König lives and taking a moment to drive past his house.

When I go downstairs, the table is perfectly set with fruit salad, olive oil, cheese, whole-grain bread, yogurt, and plums. A copy of the newspaper I work for is placed discreetly to the left. My husband has long since given up reading print media and is consulting his iPad. Our oldest son asks what “blackmail” means. I can’t understand why he wants to know until I see the front page. There is a large photo of Jacob, one of many he must have sent to the press. He looks thoughtful, reflective. Next to the photo is the headline: “Deputy Reports Blackmail Attempt.”

I didn’t write the article. In fact, while I was at my meeting with Jacob, the editor-in-chief rang to say that I could cancel because they had received a communiqué from the Ministry of Finance and were working on the case. I explained that the meeting had already taken place, that it had happened more quickly than I’d expected and without any need for the “usual tactics.” I was then dispatched to a nearby neighborhood (which considers itself a “city” and even has a prefecture) whose grocery store was caught selling food that’s past its sell-by date. I talked to the owner of the store, to neighbors and friends of neighbors, something I’m sure our readers found made for a more interesting article than some political scandal. It also made the front page, but without the banner headlines. “Grocery Store Fined, No Reports of Food Poisoning.”

Seeing that photo of Jacob right there on our breakfast table troubles me deeply.

I tell my husband that we need to have a talk—tonight.

“We can leave the children with my mother and go to dinner somewhere, just the two of us,” he says. “I need to spend a bit of time with you as well, alone and without any terrible music blaring in our ears. How can people possibly like that?”

IT WAS a spring morning.

I was sitting in a corner of the playground that was usually deserted and studying the tiles on the school wall. I knew there was something wrong with me.

The other children all thought I acted “better than them,” and I never made any attempt to deny this. On the contrary. I made my mother keep buying me expensive clothes and taking me to school in her pricey foreign car.

But that day in the playground, I realized that I was alone, and might remain alone for the rest of my life. Even though I was only eight years old, it seemed like it was already too late to change and to prove to the other children that I was just like them.

Now, summer.

I was at secondary school, and the boys were always hitting on me, no matter how hard I tried to fend them off. The other girls were green with envy, but pretended not to be and were always hanging around and cozying up to me, hoping to pick up any rejects.

And I rejected almost everyone, because I knew that if anyone ever managed to enter my world, they would find nothing of interest. It was best to maintain an air of mystery with a hint of unattainable pleasures.

On my way home, I noticed a few mushrooms that had sprung up after the rain. They were perfect and intact because everyone knew they were poisonous. For a fraction of a second, I considered eating them. I wasn’t feeling particularly sad or particularly happy; I just wanted to get my parents’ attention.

I didn’t eat the mushrooms.

Now it’s the first day of autumn, the loveliest season of the year. Soon the leaves will change color and each tree will be different from all the others. On the way to the car park, I decide to take a slightly different route.

I stop in front of the school where I studied. The tile wall is still there. Nothing has changed, except for the fact that I’m no longer alone. In my mind are two men; one will never be mine, but I’ll have dinner tonight with the other one in some special, carefully chosen spot.

A bird flies across the sky, playing with the wind. It flies back and forth, rises and falls, its movements obeying some logic I cannot understand. Perhaps the only logic is that of having fun.

I am not a bird. I can’t spend my life playing like many of our friends, who have less money but who seem to spend their whole lives traveling or going to restaurants. I’ve tried to be like that, but I can’t. Thanks to my husband’s influence, I got the job I have now. I work, I fill my time, I feel useful and able to justify my existence. One day, my children will be proud of their mother, and my childhood friends will be more frustrated than ever, because I have managed to build something tangible while they have devoted themselves to looking after the house, the children, and their husband.

Perhaps they don’t have this need to impress other people. I do, and I can’t reject it, because it’s been a good influence on my life, driving me on. As long as I don’t take any unnecessary risks, of course. As long as I manage to preserve my world exactly as it is today.

As soon as I get to the office, I search through the government’s digital archives. It takes me less than a minute to find Jacob König’s address, as well as information about how much he earns, where he studied, the name of his wife, and where she works.

MY HUSBAND has chosen a restaurant halfway between my office and our house. We’ve been there before. I like the food, the wine, and the atmosphere, but I always feel that we eat better at home. I dine out only when my social life requires it, and, whenever I can, I avoid it. I love cooking. I love being with my family, feeling that I’m both protector and protected.

One of the tasks not on my to-do list this morning was “drive past Jacob König’s house.” I managed to resist the impulse. I have enough imaginary problems without adding the real problem of unrequited love. The feelings I had are long over. It won’t happen again. We can now proceed into a future of peace, hope, and prosperity.

“They say the owner has changed and the food isn’t quite as good,” says my husband.

It doesn’t matter. Restaurant food is always the same: too much butter, ostentatious presentation, and—because we live in one of the most expensive cities in the world—an exorbitant price for something that really isn’t worth it.

But eating out is a ritual. We are greeted by the headwaiter, who leads us to our usual table even though we haven’t been here for some time. He asks if we want the same wine (of course we do) and hands us the menu. I read it from beginning to end and choose the same thing as always. My husband opts for his traditional choice, roast lamb with lentils. The waiter comes to tell us about today’s chef’s specials: we listen politely, grunt appreciatively, then order.

The first glass of wine doesn’t need to be tasted and meticulously analyzed because we’ve been married for ten years. It goes down very quickly, among talk of work and complaints about the man who was supposed to come and fix the central heating but never turned up.