In two weeks, I'm moving from my parents to my grandmother's apartment and starting to make repairs. I myself glue the wallpaper, hang a new chandelier and curtains, arrange books on the shelves. My parents also help me: my father repairs the wiring in glasses with a funny, rewound blue electrical tape, a bow; mother lays out clothes in the closet, deftly managing with a healthy hand and not ceasing to chat:

- It's a good place, I think you'll like it. You work, and when the diagnosis is removed, it will be possible to go for a promotion. Nobody asks for help anyway.

“Okay, Mom,” I agree, without specifying...