At the table

⏱ ~4 min reading

Nikita came into the kitchen. It smelled of home-made potatoes with mushrooms, dill, and fresh bread. Mom was setting out the plates. Dad was sitting in his place — by the window — and was already waiting.

Nikita sat down in his chair. He immediately picked up the phone. A funny animal was playing on the screen - a cat playing the piano. The animal was jumping up and down, and music was playing.

"Mykytka, clean up," said mother gently. - We are having dinner.

— Now, I'll just wait and see.

Nikita held the phone in one hand and the fork in the other. He was mostly looking at the screen. His fork would sometimes hit the potato, sometimes just a little too close.

Mom and Dad looked at each other.

Dad didn't say anything. He put his napkin on the table—neatly, next to his plate. He picked up his fork. He looked at his wife.

— How is your day, Olya?

— Tired. There were two assemblies at school today. And you?

"We have a new customer. I'll tell you later.".

They began to talk quietly. Nikita ate, poking at his phone. His cat had already played four melodies.

Suddenly, Nikita dropped his fork. It clattered loudly against the plate.

"Nikita," Dad said calmly. "Can I use the phone for a minute?"

Nikita looked up. Dad's voice was without anger. Just calm.

— What?

— I just want to.

Nikita gave it to him. Dad put the phone on the shelf above the refrigerator. It was high up — Nikita couldn't reach it.

— Dad…

"Listen. I'll explain.".

Dad sat back down. He took a piece of bread and placed it on his napkin.

— You know, Nikita, our table is not just a table. It's a place where we gather together. Only here. Mom is tired, I'm tired, you're tired. Every day we're in different places — school, work, the little one's kindergarten. The table is when we're with each other again.

"I'm here. I'm eating.".

"My body is here. My head is on the phone. And when my head is somewhere else, it's like there's no one at the table. Mom wanted to talk to you, but you didn't hear.".

Nikita frowned. He wasn't used to being put in his place so gently. At first it seemed rude to him. But then he looked at his mother. Her mother was looking at her plate. Her mother had small shadows of fatigue under her eyes.

Nikita had not noticed these shadows before.

"Mom," Nikita said quietly. "What did you want to tell me?"

Mom looked up. She smiled.

"I just wanted to ask how your day at kindergarten was. What was your lunch like today? Who did you play with?".

— It was a pea-filled lunch. And I played with Artem and Sofiyka. We built a castle out of blocks. Sofiyka made a tower, and I made a gate.

Mom listened. She nodded. The shadows on her face became thinner—as if the light had become brighter.

Dad put his hand on the table next to Nikita's plate.

"There. That's dinner. Not potatoes, not mushrooms. And when we hear each other.".

Nikita picked up the fork correctly. He tried to eat without looking around. In his mouth, the potatoes suddenly turned out to be tastier than he thought. The mushrooms smelled like an autumn forest. And the dill gently tickled his tongue.

He hadn't noticed this before. Because he was eating with his phone.

When the plate was empty, Nikita took a napkin. He wiped his lips. Like dad. Not with his sleeve — with a napkin.

Mom looked at him.

— What kind of host are you today?.

Nikita felt pleased. "Master," he said, sounding adult.

Dad handed him bread.

"Would you like another slice? With cheese?"

— I want to.

They sat for a long time. Mom talked about her colleague. Dad about a new project. Nikita about the kindergarten. Everything mixed together like mushrooms and potatoes. And it was good.

When everyone got up, Nikita helped Mom carry the plates away. Dad reached over and took the phone off the shelf.

"Here. You can play. I won't forbid it.".

"I'll be there later," said Nikita. "Can I stay with you for a little longer?"

Dad looked at Mom. Mom looked at Dad. They both smiled at the same time, like twins.

From that evening on, they had a rule in their house. Not written, just agreed upon. A table, no phones. A table, for faces.

Nikita sometimes forgot. Then dad would quietly point to the shelf above the refrigerator. Nikita would remember. And hang up the phone.

Because at the table, the most important thing is those across from you.