Igor Grom/Son Lev

She burst into the hallway, pulling his jacket off the hanger as she went. Igor's four-year-old son, Lyova, stood in the middle of the hallway in a puddle of melted snow.

“Lyovushka, darling, put it on, we’re really late,” the voice sounded pleading.

The answer was silence. The perfectly calibrated, cruel silence of a child who has learned to punish with silence.

She crouched down, trying to catch his eye. In the three months of their "family," she'd learned all his tricks. First, she'd whispered forgiveness for taking her mother's place. Then she'd tried to bribe him with a construction set. Now, she was simply begging for his cooperation.

— Let me help you. Put your hand here…

He jerked. A yellow rubber boot, flying heavily into the air, slammed right into her temple. The world went gray with pain for a second. The boot slapped the floor. A second followed.

"You're not my mother!" her voice broke into an almost animalistic scream. "You're a stranger!"