Before dark, I wander around the apartment idle, freezing near the refrigerator. The simplest task - cooking dinner for yourself - makes you get lost. At home, most often cooking is done by my mother, sometimes by my father. I am trusted to cut the salad, make tea, clear the table, wash the plates.

Having pulled out all the products on the table, I look at them for a long time, as if I were seeing them for the first time. Half an hour later, I still cope with the first independent dish over the past few years - scrambled eggs with sausage and tomatoes. Ivan finds me washing dishes,...