“A doll, I want a doll,” Rita looks at the overhydrated Barbie with pleading eyes. “Baby, you have so many of them at home, you don’t need another one.” “Princess,” the daughter continues, pointing with her finger, “well, let’s at least touch it.” “Okay, but no shopping for toys,” I sternly warn. Near the row with dolls, my daughter comes to life, I take her out of the cart, and five-year-old Ritulya studies the assortment with interest. He finds Ken, who is destined to be Barbie’s mate, and says: “Here, prince and princess, they are in love.” I can’t help but smile at this sweet comment, and answer my daughter: “Of course, just like your dad and I.” And Polya, - adds Rita. - Oh, no, baby, Polina is just your nanny, she helps me look after such a beauty like you, but we have a relationship with your daddy. We loved each other so much that such sunshine was born,” I curtsy and kiss Margarita on the forehead. “But dad kissed Polya too, and also said that he would marry her. “I saw,” my daughter insists, furrowing her little eyebrows. I look at her and don’t understand, she came up with it or... These strange glances of Polina at my husband, her helpfulness and desire to work beyond measure flash before my eyes. Really?...