I Know What’s Best — Oh, what now… — Dmitry crouched wearily in front of his daughter, studying the pink splotches on her cheeks. — Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the centre of the room, quiet and unusually serious for her age. She was used to these check-ups, her parents’ worried faces, the endless ointments and tablets. Mary came over and knelt down next to her husband, gently brushing a strand of hair from Sophie’s face. — These medicines aren’t helping. At all. They’re like giving her water. And the doctors at the surgery… honestly, I don’t know what they’re doing. This is the third time they’ve changed the treatment plan, and we’re getting nowhere. Dmitry stood up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the sky was grey and the day promised to be as dull as every other. They got ready quickly— bundled Sophie into a warm coat— and half an hour later they were sitting in his mum’s flat. Olga tutted, shook her head, and stroked her granddaughter’s back. — She’s so little, yet so many medicines. It must be such a strain on her body, — she said, sitting Sophie on her lap. The little girl instinctively leaned into her grandmother. — It’s heartbreaking to see. — It’s not like we want to give them, — Mary said, perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers tightly clasped. — But the allergy just won’t go away. We’ve already removed everything. Absolutely everything. She eats only the basics, and still she gets the rash. — And what do the doctors say? — Nothing definite. They can’t pinpoint it. We’re doing tests, blood work, trying everything, and the only result… — Mary waved irritably — …is right there, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and straightened Sophie’s collar. — I hope she’ll outgrow it. Sometimes children do, and it just goes away. But for now, there’s not much to be hopeful about. Dmitry watched his daughter in silence. So small, so thin. Her eyes, large and thoughtful. He stroked her hair, and memories of his own childhood flashed up— filching scones from the kitchen when his mum baked on Saturdays, begging for sweets, eating jam by the spoon from the jar. And his daughter… Boiled veg. Boiled meat. Only water. No fruit, no treats, no real children’s food. Four years old, and her diet stricter than some grown-ups with stomach ulcers. — We don’t know what else to cut, — he said quietly. — Her diet is already… there’s almost nothing left. They drove home in silence. Sophie dozed in the back, and Dmitry kept glancing at her in the mirror. She slept peacefully. At least she wasn’t itching right now. — Mum called, — Mary spoke up. — She wants to see Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets to the puppet theatre— she wants to take her. — To the theatre? — Dmitry changed gear. — That’s good. A bit of fun can’t hurt. — That’s what I thought. She could use a distraction. On Saturday, Dmitry parked outside his mother-in-law’s house and lifted Sophie from her car seat. She blinked sleepily— it was an early start— and rubbed her eyes with her fists. He scooped her up, and she pressed her nose to his neck, warm and light as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor swept onto the porch in her floral dressing gown, arms thrown up as if she’d just rescued Sophie from a shipwreck. — Oh, my darling, my sunshine, — she clasped Sophie to her generous bosom. — So pale, so thin. Her cheeks are gaunt. You’ve worn her out with these diets, completely ruined the poor child. Dmitry shoved his hands in his pockets, holding back his irritation. It was always the same. — We’re doing this for her wellbeing. Not by choice, you know. — What wellbeing? — Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting her granddaughter as if she’d just returned from a prisoner-of-war camp. — Just skin and bones. She’s a child! Children need to grow, you’re starving her. She whisked Sophie into the house, not looking back, and the door clicked shut. Dmitry stood for a moment on the porch; something tugged at his mind, a half-formed suspicion that slipped away, dissolving like early morning mist. He rubbed his brow, listened to the hush of the unfamiliar garden, then headed to his car. A child-free weekend— it felt odd, almost forgotten. On Saturday, he and Mary went to the supermarket, wheeled a trolley through the aisles, stocked up for the week. At home, Dmitry finally fixed the leaking tap in the bathroom (it’d been dripping for two months). Mary tidied the wardrobes, bagged up old clothes for the charity shop. Ordinary chores, but without Sophie’s voice, the flat felt somehow wrong, too empty. That evening, they ordered pizza— the good kind, with mozzarella and basil, the sort Sophie couldn’t eat. Opened a bottle of red wine. Sat in the kitchen, chatting aimlessly— conversations they hadn’t had for ages. About work, holiday plans, the never-ending renovations. — It’s nice, — Mary said suddenly, then bit her lip. — I mean… It’s quiet. Peaceful. — I get it — Dmitry squeezed her hand. — I miss her too. But a break does us good. He picked Sophie up late on Sunday. The sun was setting, flooding the streets with thick orange light. Mrs Taylor’s house sat behind old apple trees, and in the golden glow, it looked almost cosy. Dmitry stepped out of the car, pushed the gate— the hinges squeaked— and stopped dead. His daughter was sitting on the porch steps. Next to her, Mrs Taylor, radiating happiness, was bent over her with undisguised pride. In her hand was a pie— golden and glossy with butter. And Sophie was eating it, crumbs all over her cheeks and chin, her eyes shining with a joy Dmitry hadn’t seen in ages. He stared for a few stunned seconds. Then anger flared through his chest, hot and uncontrollable. He lunged forward, snatched the pie from his mother-in-law’s hands. — What is this?! Mrs Taylor recoiled, her face flushing right to her hairline. She wrung her hands in defence, babbling. — It’s just a bit! Just one little bite! What could it hurt— it’s only a pie… Dmitry wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie into his arms— she went silent, clinging to his coat— and carried her to the car. Clipped her into her seat, his hands trembling with rage. Sophie watched him, eyes wide and lips trembling. — It’s okay, sweetheart, — he soothed, stroking her hair, forcing his voice to calmness. — Sit here a moment. Daddy will be right back. He shut her door and strode back to the house. Mrs Taylor was still on the porch, fiddling with her dressing gown hem, face blotched with colour. — Dmitry, you don’t understand… — I don’t understand?! — He stopped two steps away, voice shaking. — Six months! Six months of tests, appointments, endless nights worrying about our daughter! Do you have any idea how much that’s cost? The sleepless nights, the anxiety? She backed towards the door. — I just wanted the best for her… — The best?! — He stepped forward. — We fed her nothing but boiled chicken and water! Cut everything from her diet! And you sneak her fried pies? — I was helping her build an immunity! — Mrs Taylor suddenly straightened up, chin jutting. — Just a little at a time, so her body gets used to it. Another week, and it would’ve all cleared up, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing, I brought up three children! Dmitry stared. This woman, whose presence he’d tolerated for years for the sake of peace, had endangered his child— believing she knew best, better than doctors. — Three children, — he repeated quietly. Mrs Taylor paled. — That’s irrelevant. Every child is different. And Sophie’s not your child— she’s mine. And you won’t see her anymore. — You can’t do that! — Mrs Taylor gripped the rail. — You have no right! — I do. He turned and walked to the car. The shouts behind him faded as he climbed in and started the engine. In the rear-view mirror, Mrs Taylor was waving her arms at the gate. He pressed down the accelerator. At home, Mary met them in the hall. One look at Dmitry’s face and Sophie’s red eyes, and she understood. — What happened? He told her, brief and flat— the emotion already spent. Mary listened, her face hardening by the second. She picked up her phone. — Mum. Yes, Dmitry told me. How could you? Dmitry took Sophie to the bathroom— wiped away the pie, her tears. In the hall, Mary was speaking, her voice sharp and unfamiliar. By the end, he caught: “Until we sort out this allergy—you’re not seeing Sophie.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s had become a ritual. Today, a sponge cake stood in pride of place— with cream and strawberries. And Sophie was eating it— herself, big spoon, cream everywhere— and not a trace of rash on her cheeks. — Who would’ve thought? — Olga shook her head. — Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. — The doctor said, one in a thousand cases, — Mary buttered her bread. — As soon as we cut it out completely and switched to olive oil— she was fine in two weeks. Dmitry couldn’t stop staring at his daughter— pink cheeks, bright eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally eating real food again. Cakes, biscuits, anything made without sunflower oil— which, as it turned out, was a surprisingly wide range. Relations with Mrs Taylor stayed frosty. She called, apologised, cried. Mary answered in short, clipped sentences. Dmitry didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for another giant forkful of cake, and Olga slid the plate closer. — Eat up, darling. Eat and be well. Dmitry leaned back, listening to the rain outside. But the house was warm, filled with the smell of baking. His daughter was better. That was all that mattered.