My recovery was slow, and sometimes I would still pick up the phone by habit to call my father — to ask how he was, whether he wanted his favorite cookies or sweet pears…

“Tatiana, are you ready to talk about your dad’s apartment? Or is it still too soon?” Maxim asked gently one evening.

I looked at my husband and nodded sadly.
“It’s time to move forward. Let’s talk.”

“Bogdan is grown now, doesn’t want to go to high school, wants to apply to culinary college. I think we should give him your dad’s apartment so he can try living on his own. What do you think?”

I agreed without hesitation.