⏱ ~3 min reading
Grandma Tarasyk always had a crystal vase of candies on her sideboard. Small, with polished edges that caught the light and cast rainbow spots on the wall.
Grandma put different candies. Caramels in red wrappers. Small chocolates. "Squirrels" with nuts. Sometimes toffee - the kind that sticks to your teeth and smells like real butter.
Tarasik loved his grandmother — and he loved candy. Grandma always said:
"Take it, kitty. One a day. If you eat it, tell me, I'll give you more.".
Tarasyk knew this rule. One a day. And to say.
That Friday, Tarasik ran to his grandmother's after kindergarten. The house smelled of fried onions and something else—maybe potatoes with dill. Grandma was in the kitchen, rattling pots and pans.
Tarasik looked into the vase. There was one candy there. The last one. "Squirrel" - in a blue wrapper, with a nut. Tarasik loved it very much.
He already ate one today. At home, after lunch. Mom gave it to him. And the rule was — one a day.
Nobody saw. Grandma was banging pots and pans, Dad was still at work, Mom was at home.
Tarasyk extended his hand.
Then — suddenly — he stopped. He thought. He thought about the rule. He thought that Grandma wouldn't notice. He thought that she might even laugh warmly: "That's a jumpy little guy, he ate it and didn't tell!"«
But I thought of something else.
«"If I take it quietly, it's like I'm cheating on her. And I'm not cheating on her. I love her.".
Tarasik removed his hand. He went to the kitchen.
Grandma stood by the stove, wearing an apron embroidered with poppies. She was stirring the potatoes with a wooden spoon.
— Grandma.
— What, kitty?
— Can I have the last "squirrel"? I know, I already ate one today, my mother gave it to me. But I really, really want it. Can I?
Grandma turned around. She put down her spoon. She wiped her hands on her apron. She squatted down to be on a par with Tarasyk—her knees were cracking like dry branches, but she sat down anyway.
"You know what I'll tell you, kitty?"
— What?
"I'll let you. Because you came and asked. And you didn't take it quietly.".
Tarasik smiled. He felt warmer somewhere under his sweater.
"What if I took it quietly?"
Grandma smiled and her eyes became like two little suns with wrinkles and rays.
"Then the candy would be just as sweet. But you're bitter inside. Because when you take it secretly, it's only sweet in your mouth, not in your heart.".
Tarasyk thought. He nodded. He understood, though not completely, but enough.
He ran to the buffet. He took the "squirrel". He unwrapped it. The candy smelled of chocolate and roasted hazelnuts. Tarasik chewed it slowly. And it was sweet both in his mouth and inside - equally.
— Grandma!
— What?
— The candy is gone. Do you want more?
- Fate, kitty. I will buy tomorrow.
The next day the vase was full again. And Tarasyk already knew: the sweetest thing is what you take honestly. Then it was sweet not only here, in your mouth, but also here — he poked himself under his sweater, where a small, warm heart beat.
💡 The most delicious thing is honest.