Alexander Sergeyev

Caesar was five years old. He stood on a chair, trying to reach for a cup to pour himself some water. He wanted to be big like his dad. But the cup slipped and shattered into large pieces.

You heard the ringing and ran to the kitchen. But Alexander was faster. He appeared in the doorway—tall, darker than a cloud. He saw the shards, saw Caesar with frightened eyes.

"I told you, Caesar!" Alexander's voice rings out. "I told you not to climb on the chair! You're little, you'll fall, you'll cut yourself! How many times do I have to tell you?!"

Caesar cringes. He opens his mouth to explain, but his voice trembles.

— I just wanted water... like dad...

"I didn't ask you to be like your dad!" Alexander barks. "You have to listen! If I say no, I mean no!"

Caesar can't take it anymore. First a sob, then tears - big, childish, when it's impossible to hold back. *

— Don't cry! —* Alexander takes a step forward. *— Men don't cry, Caesar. Enough!

• But the tears still flow, his little shoulders shake. Caesar wipes his face with his palms, tries to stop - he can't. *

— Enough, —* quieter now, but still harsh. *— Go to your room. Now.

• Caesar leaves, sobbing. The kitchen goes silent. Alexander collects the broken pieces and turns to you.

"When he grows up, no one will pity him. Not his enemies, not his competitors. He must understand from childhood that tears don't solve problems. Only action. Only strength. I am making him strong. That's right."