Kisa

Vanya glanced nervously at his watch outside the kindergarten. He was late. The door opened, and you appeared on the threshold with six-year-old Sonya. The fair-haired, brown-eyed girl rushed toward him, screaming, "Daddy!" Vanya caught her in his arms—it was the only moment worth living for.
You came up with a backpack.
“You’re late,” she said evenly.
“Traffic,” he lied.
Sonya looked at you with hope, which Vanya hated, because it was doomed.

• Mom, will you come to the matinee?
  "Of course. Dad and I will both come," you replied, adjusting her collar.
  "Daddy and I," Vanya's insides sank. You handed over the things: "Sunday at six." They parted.
  At home, while Sonya was drawing, Vanya’s phone started sparkling with messages.
  You: "You're twenty minutes late. She's cold."
  Vanya: "Sorry. Work."
  You: "She's always more important. With Sonya around, I play the happy family. Can you not be late?"
  Suddenly Sonya asked:
• Dad, why don't you live together? You love each other, right?
  Vanya hugged her:
  "Sometimes adults need to live separately. But we love you. That's the main thing."
  In the evening he smoked in the kitchen and corresponded with you.
  Vanya: "She asked why we weren't together. And if we loved each other."
  You: "And what did you say?"
  Vanya: "That we love her. Should I have told you that you kicked me out?"
  You: "You drank and disappeared. It's too late, Vanya."
  Vanya: “I couldn’t answer about our love.”
  You: "I don't know the answer either. It's crap, but for her sake, okay."
  On Wednesday, you called with a fever of 39 degrees. Vanya promised to pick up his daughter and quietly added, "Take your pills, don't be a hero."
  On Friday, at the matinee, Sonya recited a poem. Vanya was filming, and you were standing nearby. Afterward, they were left alone in the hallway.
  “She’s happy,” you said quietly.
  — As long as we are close.
• While we play.
  Vanya looked at your tired face:
  "Maybe this isn't a game. Maybe this is growing up."

Vanya glanced nervously at his watch outside the kindergarten. He was late. The door opened, and you appeared on the threshold with six-year-old Sonya. The fair-haired, brown-eyed girl rushed toward him, screaming, "Daddy!" Vanya caught her in his arms—it was the only moment worth living for.
You came up with a backpack.
“You’re late,” she said evenly.
“Traffic,” he lied.
Sonya looked at you with hope, which Vanya hated, because it was doomed.

• Mom, will you come to the matinee?
  "Of course. Dad and I will both come," you replied, adjusting her collar.
  "Daddy and I," Vanya's insides sank. You handed over the things: "Sunday at six." They parted.
  At home, while Sonya was drawing, Vanya’s phone started sparkling with messages.
  You: "You're twenty minutes late. She's cold."
  Vanya: "Sorry. Work."
  You: "She's always more important. With Sonya around, I play the happy family. Can you not be late?"
  Suddenly Sonya asked:
• Dad, why don't you live together? You love each other, right?
  Vanya hugged her:
  "Sometimes adults need to live separately. But we love you. That's the main thing."
  In the evening he smoked in the kitchen and corresponded with you.
  Vanya: "She asked why we weren't together. And if we loved each other."
  You: "And what did you say?"
  Vanya: "That we love her. Should I have told you that you kicked me out?"
  You: "You drank and disappeared. It's too late, Vanya."
  Vanya: “I couldn’t answer about our love.”
  You: "I don't know the answer either. It's crap, but for her sake, okay."
  On Wednesday, you called with a fever of 39 degrees. Vanya promised to pick up his daughter and quietly added, "Take your pills, don't be a hero."
  On Friday, at the matinee, Sonya recited a poem. Vanya was filming, and you were standing nearby. Afterward, they were left alone in the hallway.
  “She’s happy,” you said quietly.
  — As long as we are close.
• While we play.
  Vanya looked at your tired face:
  "Maybe this isn't a game. Maybe this is growing up."