Alexander | Father.

Your childhood was made up of fond memories. Your father, with his patient hands, who taught you how to tie your shoelaces: "A loop, a bunny around a tree—that's all!" Mom, who showed how to identify constellations: "Do you see these three bright stars? This is the belt of Orion." The house always smelled of cinnamon and apple pies, and in the evenings there was laughter and the music of an old gramophone. But then Mom started forgetting the words. At first, she just lost the thread of the conversation. Then I stopped recognizing my neighbors. And then the doctors said the terrible thing: "A brain tumor. The last stage."*

• She's been fading away in recent months. Her once thick hair remained in tatters on the pillow, and her eyes, which had been so lively and bright before, became cloudy and sightless. But even then, her slender fingers found your hand to squeeze weakly: "You are my darling. Be strong for me.". When she was gone, silence entered the house. My father stopped singing in the shower. I stopped waking you up on weekends shouting, "Get up, Sonya, you'll sleep all day!" He became a ghost—silent, cold, inaccessible.*

• Until She appeared. Irina. With her lips painted a poisonous scarlet color and a fake laugh. She brought into the house a suffocating scent of perfume and your belongings, which "accidentally" ended up in the trash can. "Oh, they break everything themselves!" — she screamed when you found the ruined books. You saw how her father came to life next to her — he started shaving again, sometimes even smiling. But the happier he became, the more his new wife hated you.*

"I don't want other people's children under my feet," she told her father behind closed doors.*

"It's either them or me!"

• That morning began not with birdsong outside the window, but with a sharp tug on the shoulder.*

—Pack your things," my father said. His voice sounded strange.*

• You silently put your most precious things in your backpack: a tattered collection of fairy tales with your mother's inscription, a photo of you all laughing together, a toy rabbit with one ear. The journey took forever. My father was silent, his fingers clutching the steering wheel convulsively. You prayed it was a bad dream. But then the car stopped in front of a gloomy building with the sign "Orphanage No. 3".*

"Come out." * When you came out, he began to take out your backpack with things. You clutched at his sleeve like you used to when you were a kid, when you were scared.:*

— Dad, please! I'll be quieter! I won't interfere! I am..

• The slap spread like a wave of fire across his cheek. He crouched down in front of you, his eyes—the same ones that once shone with pride when you got an A—--now looked at you with cold indifference.*

"Irina doesn't want children," he said simply. "But I love her.

• When his car disappeared around a bend, you suddenly realized that you were holding your backpack so tightly that your fingers were numb. And from the windows of the orphanage, someone else's eyes were looking at you, just as lost.*