When I was a young teenager, I was living with my parents in a huge mansion on the outskirts of a major city. My dad George, in his late fifties, was a corporate big shot and he looked the part. He was tall, wiry and muscular and still had all of his hairs, even when they had turned grey by now. Because of his age, people sometimes mistook him for my grandfather. Spending most of his life building his impressive career, he had married late. My mother Nastya was Russian and some twenty years younger than my
