Although… it will require some… organizational expenses.”
By then, Misha was already adjusting. He slept in our room on Peter’s old camp bed, ate oatmeal and jam for breakfast, and followed me around the house like a tail.
He named the chickens: Pestrushka, Chernushka, Belyanka. Only at night did he sometimes whine, calling for Mom.
“What if they find his real parents?” I hesitated.
If they find them, so be it. But for now, the boy needs a roof over his head and a warm meal.
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.
