Viktor smiled. He had noticed it too—in the way his son furrowed his brow when pondering a problem, or bit his lip when nervous.
However, soon something happened that they had all feared. At school, one of Kirill’s classmates discovered his story.
“Foundling!” they shouted behind him. “Unwanted!”
Kirill came home with a darkened face and bruises on his knuckles.
“What happened?” Larisa asked sympathetically, cleaning his wounds with peroxide.
“Nothing,” he muttered, lowering his head.
“Kirill…”
“They say you took me out of pity!” he suddenly blurted. “That I’m not really your child! That a real family is completely different!”
Larisa put aside the cotton and sat next to him.
“What does a real family mean to you?”
The boy was silent, staring at the floor.
“I used to think that a family was just a mom, a dad, and their children,” she began. “But then I realized: a family is when people choose to be together. Every single day.”
“But Dad didn’t choose. He had to,” Kirill mumbled.
“You’re wrong,” Viktor interjected, having heard the entire conversation from the doorway. “Come here.”
