I Know Best – What’s going on here? – Dmitry sighed, crouching in front of his daughter and studying the pink patches on her cheeks. – Not again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and strangely serious for a child. She’d already grown used to these check-ups, to her parents’ worried faces, to endless creams and tablets. Mary came over and knelt beside her husband, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. Not at all. It’s like giving her water. And the NHS doctors… honestly, who are they? Third time they’ve changed her prescription and it’s made no difference. Dmitry stood up, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the morning was grey, and the day promised to be as bleak as the last. They got ready quickly – wrapped Sophie up warm – and within half an hour were sitting in Dmitry’s mum’s flat. Olga was tutting, shaking her head, stroking her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on all these medicines. What a strain on her little body, – she settled Sophie on her lap and the girl immediately snuggled into her grandma. – It’s heartbreaking. – We’d be happy to stop them, – Mary perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers locked tight. – But the allergy isn’t going away. We’ve cut out everything. Absolutely everything. She eats just basic foods – and the rash still appears. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing specific. They can’t pinpoint it. Blood tests, allergy testing, but the only result… – Mary waved a hand – is this, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and adjusted Sophie’s collar. – I just hope she outgrows it. Sometimes kids do get better as they get older. But for now, it’s just so tough. Dmitry gazed at his daughter. Small, thin, big watchful eyes. He stroked her hair, remembering his own childhood – sneaking pies from the kitchen when mum baked on Saturdays, begging for sweets, eating jam straight from the jar. And his daughter… Boiled vegetables. Boiled chicken. Water. No fruit, no treats, none of the things normal children eat. Four years old – and her diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else to cut out, – he murmured. – Her diet’s already… there’s barely anything left. They drove home in silence. Sophie dozed off in the back seat, and Dmitry watched her in the mirror. At least she’s sleeping. Not itching for once. – Mum called, – Mary spoke up. – She wants us to bring Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for a puppet show, wants to take her out. – The theatre? – Dmitry changed gears. – That’s good. She needs a distraction. – That’s what I thought too. She could do with a break. …On Saturday Dmitry parked outside his mother-in-law’s house and lifted Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily and rubbed her eyes – dragged out of bed early, not fully awake yet. He picked her up and she pressed her nose to his neck, warm and light as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor swept out onto the porch in a flowered dressing gown, hands thrown up like she’d spotted a castaway. – Oh my darling, sunshine, – she scooped Sophie to her ample bosom. – So pale, so thin, cheeks all hollow. You’ve wasted her with your diets, you’re ruining the child. Dmitry shoved his hands in his pockets, suppressing his irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing this for her own good. Not by choice, trust me. – What good is that? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though she’d just staggered back from a war zone. – Skin and bones. She needs to grow, and you starve her. She carried Sophie inside without a glance back, door snicking shut behind them. Dmitry stood for a long moment, something sharp flickering at the edge of his mind – a suspicion, refusing to fully form, dissolving away like morning fog. He rubbed his forehead, lingered by the gate, listening to the quiet, then turned and walked to the car. Having the weekend without his daughter was strange, an almost forgotten feeling. On Saturday he and Mary drove to the supermarket, pushing the trolley down aisles and stacking up groceries for the week. At home, Dmitry wrestled with the leaking bathroom tap for three hours while Mary sorted the cupboards, old clothes packed up in bags for donation. Normal household busyness, but without a child’s voice the flat felt wrong, too empty. That evening they ordered pizza – the one with mozzarella and basil that Sophie couldn’t have. Opened a bottle of red. Sat in the kitchen talking about nothing and everything – work, holiday plans, the never-ending renovation. – It feels good, – Mary started, stopping herself, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Restful. – I get it, – Dmitry put his hand over hers. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday he went to collect Sophie around sunset. The house glowed in the orange light, tucked behind old apple trees and, just for a moment, looked almost inviting. Dmitry climbed out, pushed the gate – hinges squeaked – and stopped dead. On the porch sat his daughter, Mrs Taylor beside her, blissful grin plastered on her face. In her hands was a pie – huge, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was eating it, crumbs smeared on her cheeks and chin, eyes sparkling with joy like Dmitry hadn’t seen in months. For a few heartbeats he simply watched. Then a wave of anger surged through him, hot and fierce. He strode forward, snatched the pie from Mrs Taylor’s hands. – What is this?! Mrs Taylor flinched, recoiling, her face flushing from chin to hairline. She fluttered her hands at him, as if to fling away his fury. – It’s just a tiny bit, honestly! It’s just pie, what’s the harm… Dmitry didn’t listen. He scooped Sophie into his arms – she shrank away, clutching his jacket, eyes scared. He strapped her into the car seat, hands shaking, voice taut. – You’re alright, sweetheart. Just sit tight. Daddy’ll be back in a minute. He shut the door and stalked back to the house. Mrs Taylor was still on the porch, worrying the edge of her gown, blotchy-faced. – Dmitry, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he halted two steps away, rage spilling out. – Half a year! Six months we’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with our daughter! Tests, appointments, allergy checks – do you have any idea what it’s cost? The nights we haven’t slept? Mrs Taylor backed toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dmitry advanced – Water and boiled chicken for months! We cut out everything! And you sneak her fried pies? – I was building up her immunity! – she suddenly squared her shoulders. – Little by little, so she’d get used to it. A bit more and she’d have recovered, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing, I raised three kids! Dmitry stared, barely recognising her. The woman he’d tolerated for years, for the sake of his wife and family peace, was poisoning his child, convinced she knew better than the doctors. – Three kids, – he repeated coldly. Mrs Taylor paled. – But all kids are different. And Sophie is my daughter, not yours. You won’t be seeing her again. – What?! – She clung to the railings. – You can’t do that! – I can. He turned and walked away. She shrieked after him but Dmitry didn’t look back. He got in the car, started the engine. In the rear-view mirror he saw Mrs Taylor running after them, waving furiously. He pressed the accelerator. Back home, Mary met them in the hall. Saw Dmitry’s face and Sophie’s tears, and understood instantly. – What happened? Dmitry told her. Brief, emotionless – he’d already let it all out at the house. Mary’s expression turned to stone. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, Dmitry told me. How could you? He led Sophie to the bathroom, washing away the pie and tears. Behind the door Mary’s voice rang out, sharp and unfamiliar, scolding her mother like Dmitry had never heard before. There was one clear line at the end: “Until we get this allergy sorted – you won’t see Sophie again.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was already a tradition. Today there was cake: a sponge, topped with cream and strawberries. And Sophie was eating it. On her own, with a big spoon, covered in cream. Not a pink spot on her cheeks. – Who would have thought, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil allergy. So rare. – The doctor said it’s one in a thousand, – Mary spread butter on bread. – Once we cut it completely and switched to olive oil, her skin cleared up in two weeks. Dmitry watched his daughter, couldn’t stop smiling. Pink cheeks, sparkling eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally allowed normal food. Cakes, biscuits, anything made without sunflower oil – so much more than he’d ever guessed. His relationship with Mrs Taylor stayed frosty. She called, apologised, cried. Mary was curt, never warm. Dmitry never spoke to her. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga slid the plate closer. – Eat up, darling. Enjoy every bite. Dmitry leaned back. Rain pattered outside, but inside it was warm and sweet with the smell of baking. His daughter was well again. Nothing else mattered.

I swear, I know whats best

Oh, for goodness sake, Tom sighed and crouched in front of his daughter, studying the blotchy pink patches on her cheeks. Not again

Little four-year-old Grace stood in the middle of the living room with that stoic patience kids seem to master after a while. Shed gotten used to these check-ups, the worried looks on her parents faces, the endless ointments, and pills.

Anna came over and knelt next to her husband, gently brushing a lock of Graces hair from her face.

These medicines just arent doing anything. Its like giving her water. And those doctors at the surgery honestly, I dont know if they know what theyre doing. This is the third time theyve changed her prescription, and nothings helped.

Tom stood up, rubbing his forehead. The sky outside was grey, the day promising more of the same bleakness as yesterday. They got ready quicklywrapped Grace up in her warm coatand half an hour later were sitting in his mums flat.

Linda tutted sympathetically, shaking her head and stroking her granddaughters back.

Shes so tiny, and all those pills its just too much for a little ones body, she said, sitting Grace on her knee as the girl nestled into her Nan as if it was routine. It breaks me to see her like this.
We really wish we could stop, honestly, Anna sat perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers knotted tight. But the allergy wont let up. Weve removed literally everything from the house. She only eats the basics now, and still gets the rash.
What are the doctors saying?
Nothing concrete. They cant pin it down. Were doing tests, theyre taking blood, but nothing, Anna threw up her hands. The only result is thisher cheeks.

Linda sighed and fussed with Graces collar.

Maybe shell grow out of it. Kids sometimes do. For now though, its rough.

Tom just watched his daughtersmall, skinny, those huge attentive eyes. He stroked her hair and suddenly remembered his own childhood: sneaking sausage rolls from the kitchen on Saturdays, begging for sweets, eating his mums jam straight from the jar with a spoon. But his daughter just boiled veg. Boiled chicken. Water. No fruit, no snacks, none of the proper treats kids usually get. At four, her diet was stricter than some gastros with ulcers.

We honestly dont know what else to cut, he said quietly. Theres barely anything left for her to eat.

They drove home in silence. Grace nodded off in the backseat, and Tom glanced at her in the mirror from time to time. At least she wasnt scratching now.

Mum called, Anna said finally. She wants Grace over next weekend. Shes got tickets to the puppet theatre and wants to take her.
The theatre? Tom shifted gears. Thats nice. Shell enjoy that.
Thats what I thought. Some distraction would be good for her.

On Saturday, Tom parked outside his mother-in-laws. He pulled Grace out of her car seatshe blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with her fists, still not quite awake. He scooped her up and she nestled into his neck; warm, light as a sparrow.

Susan came bustling out in her flowery housecoat, arms flung wide as if she were welcoming a shipwreck survivor rather than a granddaughter.

Oh, my darling, my sunshine, she cried, snatching Grace up and squashing her against her generous bosom. Youre so pale and skinny. Her cheeks have sunk! You lot have worn her down with all those dietsyoull make her poorly!

Tom shoved his hands in his pockets, biting back a groan. Every time, it was the same routine.

Were doing this for her good, you know that.
Good?! Susan pursed her lips, eyeing Grace like shed just come back from a prison camp. Skin and bones! Children need food to growyoure starving her!

Susan swept Grace into the house without a backward glance, and the door clicked shut quietly behind her. Tom stood for a minute, something nagging at the back of his mindhe couldnt quite grasp it, like a foggy memory dissolving as soon as he looked at it. He rubbed his forehead, lingered at the gate, listening to the unfamiliar hush. Then he shrugged and walked back to the car.

Weekends without the kidit was an odd, nearly forgotten feeling. On Saturday, he and Anna wandered through Sainsburys, pushing a trolley and loading up for the week.

At home, he spent hours wrestling with the leaky tap in the bathroom, which he’d been putting off for ages. Anna sorted through cupboards, dragging out old things, filling bin bags. The usual chores, but with no childs voice echoing around, the flat felt strangely empty.

In the evening, they ordered pizzathe one with mozzarella and basil that Grace wasnt allowed. Popped open a bottle of red. Sat in the kitchen, having the kind of meandering chat they hadnt had for ages. Work, the holiday, the never-ending DIY. Adult conversation, peaceful, even though neither felt quite at ease.

Its nice, Anna said suddenly, then bit her lip. I mean you know its just quiet. Calm.
I know what you mean, Tom put his hand over hers. I miss her, but we needed a breather too.

On Sunday, he headed off to collect their daughter just before dusk. The sun was setting, throwing a deep amber glow across the street. Susans house nestled under old apple trees, looking almost cosy in the evening light.

Tom got out, pushed through the garden gateit squeakedand paused halfway up the path.

Grace was perched on the porch steps. Next to her, Susan leant close, her face the picture of pure bliss. In her handwas a pasty. Golden, glistening with butter. Grace was happily munching, cheeks smeared with crumbs, eyes wider and brighter than Tom had seen in ages.

He stood frozen, an angry flush heating through him.

Three strides got him there. He snatched the pasty from Susans hands.

What the hell is this?!

Susan jumped, her face flaring red up to her scalp, hands flapping as if to fend off his anger.

Its just a tiny bitreally! It wont hurt, just a pasty

Tom wasnt listening. He picked Grace upthe little girl silent, clinging to his jacketand marched her to the car. Buckled her in, hands shaking with fury. Graces eyes were wide with fright, mouth quavering, about to cry.

Its alright, sweetheart, he soothed, stroking her hair and forcing his voice to calmness. Sit tight for a minute, daddyll be right back.

He shut the door, stalked back to the house. Susan was still on the porch, fidgeting with her housecoat, cheeks blotchy.

Tom, youve got it all wrong
Wrong?! Half a year! Half a year we had no clue what was wrong with our kid! Tests, doctors, allergy screeningsyou know how much this has cost us? The sleepless nights, the worry?!

Susan edged towards the door.

I was only trying to help
Help?! Tom advanced, voice taut. Weve had her on boiled chicken and water! Got rid of every scrap of possible allergen! And youre feeding her butter-laden pasties behind our backs?
I was building up her immunity! Susan drew herself up, chin high. Giving her a little at a time, so her body would get used to it. Another week, and she mightve been betterthanks to me! I know what Im doingI raised three children myself!

Tom just stared, barely recognising her. The woman hed tolerated for Annas sake, for peace in the familyshed poisoned his child. Intentionally. Convinced she knew best, better than doctors.

Three kids, he repeated softly, and Susan paled. Well, every kid is different. Grace isnt yoursshes mine. And youre not seeing her again.

What?! Susan grabbed for the rail. You cant do that!
I can.

He turned, marched back to the car, ignoring the shouting behind him. In the rear view, he glimpsed someone running after the car, arms waving. He floored the accelerator.

Anna was waiting in the hallwaysaw Toms set face, Graces swollen eyes, and didnt ask.

What happened?

Tom explained, quickly, flatly, emotion spent already. Annas face grew tight with each word. Then she picked up her phone.

Mum. Yes, Tom told me. How could you?!

Tom took Grace off to the bathroom to wash away the crumbs and tears. Behind the door, Annas voice rang out, sharp in a way hed never heard before. By the end of it, she said loud and clear: Until her allergies are sortedyoure not seeing Grace.

Two months passed.

Sunday roast at Lindas had become a tradition. Today there was a cake on the table: light sponge, cream, strawberries. And Grace was digging in, using a big spoon, face smeared with cream. Her cheeksspot-free.

Who wouldve thought, Linda said, shaking her head. Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy.
Doctor said its one in a thousand, Anna spread butter on her toast. Once we stopped using it and switched to olive oilher rash disappeared in two weeks.

Tom couldnt get enough of looking at his daughterbright cheeks, sparkling eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child at last, able to have real foodcakes, biscuits, pretty much anything, as long as it wasnt made with sunflower oil. Turns out, theres loads she could have.

Things with Susan stayed chilly. She called, apologised, cried on the phone. Anna kept it short; Tom didnt speak to her at all.

Grace reached for another spoonful of cake and Linda nudged the plate nearer.

Eat up, sweetheart. Enjoy.

Tom leaned back in his chair. It was pouring outside, but it was warm and smelled of baking indoors. His girl was better. The rest didnt matter.