⏱ ~4 min reading
Tarasyk's teacher told him about words in class at school. Some are hard, some are soft. Some are heavy, some are like feathers. And among all the words, there is one, small but amazing. It can make a day better.
"This word is 'thank you,'" said the teacher.
Tarasyk listened and thought. Usually he said «thank you» when his mother reminded him. «Tarasyk, what should I say?» and he said it. And just like that — not very often.
On the way home, Tarasyk came up with an experiment. He would say "thank you" - a lot. For everything. He would see what would happen.
When he got home, Mom had already started cooking dinner. The air smelled of fried potatoes and a hint of dill. Mom stood by the stove in her kitchen apron, a strand of hair falling out of the pin at her temple.
— How is school?
— It's normal.
Tarasyk threw his backpack in the hallway. He went into the kitchen. He washed his hands. He sat down at the table.
Mom served dinner—potatoes, a cutlet, and a small tomato salad. Tarasik picked up his fork. Before he started, he looked at Mom and said:
— Mom, thank you for dinner.
Mom stopped. She looked at him in surprise.
— How?
— Thanks for dinner.
Mom's eyes narrowed a little—like when she smiles not widely but deeply. The smile came from within.
— I always ask, swallow. Enjoy.
Tarasik ate it. The potatoes were warm, with a toasted crust. The cutlet was soft, with dill. Tarasik ate everything — even the cucumber slices, which he usually left behind.
When mom was clearing the plate, Tarasik said:
— Mom. Thank you for cooking so deliciously.
Mom put the plate in the sink. She came over. She sat down opposite.
— Tarasik. Did you hear something at school?
— The teacher talked about words. That «thank you» is special.
— It is truly special.
Mom looked into his eyes. The crease between her eyebrows—the one that sometimes appears when Mom is tired—had smoothed out.
After dinner, Mom went to iron. There was a yellow lamp in the living room. Tarasik sat down next to the basket of washed clothes. He watched Mom run the iron over a cotton shirt. How the steam went in little clouds. How the fabric straightened out — evenly, smoothly.
Mom took Tarasyk's sweater. The same one, blue, with a deer on the chest, that Tarasyk loved the most. The sweater was memorable — Tarasyk always took off his clothes for no reason.
— Mom.
— What?
— Thank you for ironing my sweater.
Mom stopped the iron. She placed it vertically on the stand.
Then she came over. She sat down next to Tarasyk. She hugged him — with both arms, over his shoulders.
— Swallow. I had a… difficult day today. At work. I was tired. And you said «thank you» three times. It’s as if I hadn’t been tired all day.
Tarasik felt his chest expand. It was as if something had blossomed there—big, warm.
— And I still want to say something.
"Say it," said Mom. "Always say it. It's the simplest thing and at the same time the most important.".
When Dad came home from the garage (he was repairing a neighbor's bicycle there), Mom smiled at him—widely, with her eyes. Tarasik noticed that she wasn't smiling like she had in the morning. In the morning she had smiled with the corners of her lips. And now—with her whole self.
Tarasik ran up to his dad.
— Dad, thank you for fixing my bathroom faucet yesterday.
Dad was surprised—he had already forgotten about that crane. Then he laughed:
"What's wrong with you, kid?"
"Nothing. Just.".
— Simple?
— Simple.
The evening continued warm—warm, like a small fire. Tarasik looked at his mother and father and thought: it's amazing that one little word can do so much.
When his mother put him to bed, he took her hand and kissed the palm.
— Mom.
— What?
— Thank you for being my mom.
Mom's eyes sparkled. She didn't say anything - she just stroked Tarasik's head. For a long time. Until he fell asleep.
And in the morning, waking up, Tarasyk decided: the experiment is over, but the word remains. Forever.
💡 Words of love are the simplest and most important.