He picked up the roller and paused for a moment, expecting her expression to soften into approval. But she didn’t even look up, she poured paint into the tray with the only soup ladle in the flat.

Andrei took a deep breath. He wanted to grab her and crush her until her bones cracked. “What are you doing to us? At least I’m trying,” he wanted to say.

All that came out was: “This is my home. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”

Maria went pale, got up and looked him in the eyes. Paint dripped on the sheeting.

The doorbell chimed, then chimed again.

“I’m going to disconnect the damned thing,” thought Maria. “I’ll cut the wires and attach a shocker to the doorknob. Visitors can call in advance or go to hell. Then again, what visitors?”

The doorbell chimed a third time. Andrei went to open the door. Tykhon marched merrily into the flat, tramping the floor with his muddy shoes, followed by his grandma, Olga Konstantinovna, pulled along as she held onto the hood of the boy’s wet coat. Tall, erect, proud. She surveyed the scene, the sheeting on the floor, the paint dripping from the roller in Maria’s hand, and said nothing. Tykhon hugged Andrei’s leg and ran.

“Darling, do not even think of walking with your shoes across the carpet,” Maria said sternly and shot a look at Olga Konstantinovna. “Mum, you have a set of keys. Why do you have to ring so many times?”

“Hello,” said Olga Konstantinovna, nodding to Andrei.

“Hello, Olga Konstantinovna,” he answered. “How are you today?”

“It’s raining again.” she said, as though it were the result of an oversight on the part of Maria or Andrei. She helped Tykhon remove his boots.

“Mum, let him do it on his own, please,” Maria said. But Olga Konstantinovna was already holding Tykhon by his collar and pulling off one small shoe, which she put away in a corner. “Come on then Konstantin, let’s have the other one now,” she said, sliding off the second shoe.

Andrei laid down his roller on the sheeting and headed into the bedroom. Tykhon finally came up and kissed her on the cheek.

“Sorry Ma.”

“My sweet little manipulator,” she said, stroking his hair. “What are you after?”

“What’s a manipulator?”

“A person who wants to play tank games. What do you want?”

“To play tanks.”

“No. You already played this morning. And we’re having lunch now.”

“I didn’t play! I only watched! Dad promised!”

He whined, stamped his foot, and moved crab-like along the wall past Maria into the bedroom. Olga Konstantinovna regarded the scene with a withering look. Maria did not have the energy for an argument, her mother usually won those. But she had to say something. In her pyjamas, small and tired, she looked silly. Not at all like Olga Konstantinovna in her dun, slightly old-fashioned coat and the beret tipped to one side. Her painted lips, her narrow, long, carefully powdered face exuded calm. How beautiful she was. How could you not want to look like her? It’s what Mary Poppins might look like if she ever got old. It was a good book that one; she must read it to Tykhon. It’s a shame he didn’t care for books.