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“I want yellow.”

I turn to Vera. “He changed the requirement.”

“He’s three.”

“That is poor procurement discipline.”

Misha picks up the plain yellow cup and drinks from it.

Vera leans against the counter. “Children change their minds every five minutes, Alexei. Adults aren’t supposed to obey every new order.”

I remove the whale cups before Mrs. Wentworth sees them and forms a committee.

At lunch, I use advice from a parenting video Kirill sent after I ordered him to find reliable instructions. The woman in it kneels to the child’s level, offers two acceptable choices, and waits.

I crouch beside Misha’s chair. My incision objects, but I ignore it.

“You may have chicken or soup.”

“Jam.”

“Chicken or soup.”

“Toast.”

“Those aren’t the choices.”

Misha slides under the table.

I look at Vera. “The method has failed.”

She tears chicken into small pieces. “The method assumes the adult knows what the child is saying.”

“He’s saying jam.”

“He’s saying he doesn’t want soup or chicken.”

“He requires lunch.”

“He’ll eat toast, yogurt, and apple.”

“That’s not lunch.”

“It becomes lunch when a toddler eats it. And his mother ensures that he does.”

I sigh.

From beneath the table, Misha pushes my shoe with one finger. “Papa is blocking the garage.”

I move my foot. Vera sets toast and yogurt beside his chair. He climbs back up and eats. I return to my seat without comment.

“You’re sulking,” Vera says.

“I don’t sulk.”

Misha dips toast into yogurt. “Papa has a bad face.”

Vera gives him a napkin. “He watched one video and expected certification.”