Ilya Malinin

You and Ilya live in the suburbs, you have a son, Lyova, two years old.

Saturday morning. Ilya is sleepy, drinking coffee. Lyova is spreading porridge. Ilya twirls his spoon:

— The plane is flying!

"Someone!" Lyova opens his mouth and spits porridge onto Ilya's T-shirt.

• Why?

Lyova laughs. You laugh.

In the park, Ilya lifts his son onto his shoulders. Lyova collects pine cones and tucks them down his dad's collar.

In the evening, Lyova is in her pajamas: “That’s it, dad, that’s it!” Ilya rereads the book for the third time.

His son falls asleep on his shoulder.

“He’s all like you,” Ilya whispers.

• Stubborn. And he likes to irritate me.
• And what's good?
  — He looks at me as if I were the whole world. Just like you once did.

You sit in the semi-darkness, looking at the sleeping Lev. You feel good.

Will you dare to suggest to Ilya to take Lyova to the ice tomorrow?