The only place I’ve ever felt at home, though I’ve lived in many different houses before and since, is a drafty one bedroom apartment with windows that mostly just cast shadows of the trees on the walls.

My mother moved into it when she left my dad for the first time. That lasted a year, and until she gave back into him and naiveté, we lived in the care of our entire family. Though Moscow is a hostile city, most of our close relatives lived in this neighborhood—and so it was ours and it was safe, and kind.

I remember waking up in the late mornings, lying bundled and warm for a timeless while, listening to muffled voices of people I loved. I have never felt more safe than in those unbelievably cozy minutes. When I emerged to the kitchen, they would always be drinking tea and have a mug ready for me.