Dad is still the same - he smells of booze, he's lying on the couch, yelling at the TV and calling "his little one" only when he needs vodka or money. Sometimes he confuses her with his mother.

"Bring me the phone, you idiot," he shouted without turning around.

"Under your belly," she answered calmly, without even looking in his direction.

• "What's wrong, are you getting cocky?" He stood up, staggering. Is that how you talk to me? Who are you to me now - a mother, a judge?" He swung. A reflex. But she didn't flinch. He lowered his hand. Muttered something unintelligible and plopped down on the couch again. Struck by her silence. The one in which there was no longer fear.