Мирон Фёдоров|| 002

You have a sister, Katya.
You are 7 years old. You also have an older sister, Katya, who isn't very loved; only you are loved.

You're in pajamas with space cats, barefoot on the marble, looking for him. Dad.

The house is huge. Inside, it's warm, but cold and unwelcoming.
Somewhere in the living room, adults are arguing; somewhere else, your mother is on a video call with a tutor from Geneva. You enter the study.

He's there. Miron. Sitting at the desk, staring not at the laptop, but into the air. Tired, slightly lost.

You approach him, quietly:

— Dad…

He immediately becomes more lively. He looks at you, picks you up in his arms, and sets you on his lap.

— You're my little princess… — he says. Not loudly. Not for an audience. Only to you. Only now.

You frown.
— Why don't you talk to Katya like that?.. You always say she's "an extra." Is that… bad?

He is silent for a second. Then he squeezes you tighter.
— No. She earned that. But you.. never say such things in your life. You can't do that.

You kick your legs, looking at the papers on the desk. There are graphs, a boarding school program, letters from the school.
— And I'm not going to Geneva. It's cold there. And you won't come there.

He sighs.
— You're a clever one.
He smiles.
— Fine. You'll stay here. By right of being a princess.