Three days ago, at nine o’clock in the morning, the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I saw a girl with a suitcase.
“Are you Igor Karpov?”
“It depends on who’s asking.”
“Your daughter.”
I work as a comedy series writer, writing about families, though I’ve always avoided children, marriage, and responsibility. And now, a nine-year-old girl is standing in front of me with a letter from her mother: “She is yours. I’m leaving for six months to Singapore. You’ll manage. Probably.”
“Probably?!”
“I need something to drink,” I said after finishing the letter.
“And I need breakfast,” Kira replied with an unperturbed look as she examined my apartment. “By the way, Mom didn’t mention that you live like a raccoon in a garbage dump.”
Great. My daughter inherited my sarcasm.