The paperwork was done in three weeks. Mikhail Petrovich Berezin, officially our adopted son.
We told the neighbors he was a nephew from the city; his parents d.ied in an accident. We managed the money carefully.
First, we bought Misha clothes; his old things, though of good quality, were too small for him. Then, books, construction toys, and a scooter.
Peter insisted on making repairs: the roof was leaking and the stove was smoking.
“For the boy,” he grumbled, nailing the tiles. “So he doesn’t catch a cold.”
Misha grew like yeast.
At four, he knew all his letters; at five, he could read and subtract. Our teacher, Anna Ivanovna, exclaimed, “You’re raising a prodigy! He should study in the city, in a special school.”
But we were wary of the city.
What if someone recognized him? What if that woman changed her mind and was watching?
At seven, we decided he was going to the municipal gymnasium. We drove him; luckily, we had enough for a car. The teachers praised him endlessly:
“Your son has a photographic memory!” exclaimed the math teacher.
“And what good pronunciation!” added the English teacher. “Just like a Brit!”
At home, Misha helped Peter in the workshop. My husband started out in carpentry, making custom furniture. The boy could spend hours with a plane, carving wooden animals.
“Dad, why do all the other children have grandmothers and I don’t?” he asked once during dinner.
Peter and I exchanged glances. We expected this question and prepared for it.
