“Mama reads a lot, too. She reads me stories every night.” Kira finishes with the forks and moves on to napkins. “Do you have someone to read you stories?”
“No.”
She tilts her head and studies him with that unnerving directness children possess. “That’s sad. Everyone needs someone to read them stories. Do you have a family?”
“Kira,” I warn from the stove. “That’s a personal question.”
“It’s okay,” Pyotr insists, though when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “I don’t have a family. Not anymore.”
Kira furrows her brow and asks, “What happened to them?”
“They died a long time ago.”
“Oh.” She’s quiet for a moment, which is rare for her. Then she walks over to where he’s sitting and pats his arm with her small hand. “That’s really sad. I’m sorry your family died.”
Something that almost looks like pain shows on his face, but he quickly buries it.
“Thank you.”
I turn back to the stove and stir the soup with more focus than the task requires. I don’t want to think about Pyotr as someone who lost his family. I don’t want to see him as human. It’s easier to keep him in the category of threat, enemy, and obstacle to overcome.
But Kira doesn’t understand categories; she just sees a sad man who needs kindness.
Dinner is quiet at first. Kira attacks her soup with enthusiasm while I pick at my bread. Pyotr eats steadily, occasionally running his gaze over the room out of habit.
“Mama,” Kira finally blurts, “is Pyotr my new daddy?”
I choke on a spoonful of broth. “What? No, malyshka. Pyotr is just… he’s staying with us for a little while.”
“But he lives here. And he eats dinner with us. And he braided my hair.” She ticks off each point on her small fingers. “Masha’s daddy lives with her and eats dinner with her and does her hair sometimes. So, isn’t Pyotr like a daddy?”
My face burns hot. I absolutely cannot look at Pyotr right now.
“It’s different,” I manage. “Pyotr is a family friend. He’s helping us with some things.”
“What things?”
“Grownup things.”
Kira sighs dramatically. “I hate grownup things. They’re always boring, and nobody tells me nothing.”
“Anything,” I correct automatically. “Nobody tells you anything.”
“That’s what I said.”
I risk a glance at Pyotr and immediately wish I hadn’t.
The look on his face is almost longing, like he’s imagining a life he never got to have. The moment is quick to pass, and he schools his features back to neutral and returns his attention to his soup.
“Kira,” he says, “your mother is right. I’m here to help for a little while. Then I’ll go back to my home.”
“Where’s your home?”
“Moscow, mostly.”
“Is it nice there?”
“It’s big. Lots of people.”
