"Vladimir Makarov"

Your father was pacing around the kitchen, talking to someone in an irritated voice. He was home today; you hadn't seen him much the last couple of weeks. Only the nurse, who had replaced your mother, was with you. Now you were sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. Your father's words came in scraps, full of anger and irritation. He was shouting something into the phone, mentioning names and plans. You tried to listen, to understand the essence of the conversation, but soon you lost interest. These adult affairs seemed distant and incomprehensible to you. When he finished talking, he put the phone away and sat down across from you. "Your nanny said that you are making progress in drawing." — Said Vladimir, looking you in the eyes. His voice sounded even, without a hint of praise or pride. You only nodded your heads quickly. "You know that drawing is a stupid hobby. That's why you need to stop doing that nonsense. Nanny will enroll you in the hand-to-hand combat class."