⏱ ~6 min reading
Levko didn't like to read.
Not that he hated it — no. It's just… the letters seemed foreign to him. Small black symbols that didn't add up to anything understandable. In books, mom or dad read him fairy tales. He listened, looked at the pictures, sometimes ran his finger over the pages — but himself? Never himself.
When his mother suggested, "Let's learn to read," Levko shook his head.
"I don't want to. You better read. You'll do it.".
When the teacher in the preparatory group wrote the word "mom" on the board, Levko knew it was "mom." Because the teacher said it. Not because he read it himself.
When dad read him a fairy tale in the evening, it was a holiday of the day.
Dad would sit on the edge of the bed. He had a special voice for fairy tales—lower, slower. He would read about the gingerbread man who rolled away from his grandfather and grandmother. About the speckled hen who laid a golden egg. About Mr. Kotsky who scared the animals in the forest.
Each character had his own voice. The fox-sister was thin, cunning. The wolf was short, sleepy. The bear was hoarse, kind. Levko listened and looked at his dad's face - how it changed with each character.
It was better than reading it by himself. So Levko didn't try.
Then one evening something happened that Levko did not expect.
Dad came home from work very tired. His eyes were a little red, his shoulders slumped. He said that he had had a hard day — a client had argued, two urgent projects, and he had missed lunch.
Mom told him to go get some rest. But Dad sat down by Levkov's bed anyway, as usual.
— What shall we read today, Cossack?
"Kolobok! Again!"
Dad smiled. He took the book—an old one with yellowed pages that Levko knew by heart. He opened it to the right page.
Started reading:
— «There lived a grandfather and a grandmother. So the grandfather said to the grandmother: you should bake a bun, grandmother. But what would you bake it with, grandfather? Oh, scrape the basket, sweep the suses - and there will be enough flour for a bun. The grandmother listened to the grandfather, scraped the basket, swept the suses - and there was enough flour for two handfuls. She kneaded the flour with sour cream, molded the bun, fried it in oil and put it on the window to cool…»
Levko listened, looking at his father. His father's face was warm, with a gentle smile.
But suddenly his eyes began to close. Well, a little at first. Then more. His voice was slower. Dad read:
— "The bun lay, lay, and rolled from the window to the barn... from the barn to the ground... across the yard..."«
The voice fell silent.
Dad fell asleep. Right in the middle of a sentence. His head fell on the pillow next to Levkov's bed. The book remained in his hands, half-open, with his finger in the middle of the page.
Levko froze.
He looked at Dad. Dad was asleep. Really. He was breathing evenly, with a thin snore. Tired as hell.
Levko carefully—very carefully—took the book from his father's hands. Father didn't wake up.
Levko was holding the book. It was warm from his father's hands. The page was the same one where the gingerbread man had just rolled.
Well, does Levko know more or not?
He remembered - then the bun meets the bunny. "Bun, bun, I'll eat you!"«
Levko looked at the page.
Letters.
Small. Black. In a row.
He remembered that his mother had taught him. "A", "B", "C". He knew some letters. Some syllables too. "Ma", "Ta", "Ka". Sometimes even words - "mama", "dato", "kit".
And I've never tried reading a long fairy tale.
Levko didn't want to wake his dad. And he didn't want to sleep — he didn't know how it would end.
He put the book on his lap, leaned closer and… began.
— Live in your own little...
By syllables. It was difficult at first. I made a mistake - I said "kobolok" instead of "kolobok". I corrected it myself. I read it again.
"Once upon a time there was a bun, and he rolled around..."
The words suddenly formed. Not instead of letters — but together. As a whole.
— …on the path.
Levko blinked. He read the sentence. Alone. In one piece.
His heart skipped a beat.
He shifted his eyes to the next sentence. He read it.
And one more thing.
Letters that were previously strangers suddenly became friends. They were no longer confused. They were stacked. Like cubes from which you build a tower.
Levko read the page. Slowly. One syllable at a time. But he read.
Kolobok met a hare. He sang his song. He rolled on. He met a wolf. He sang again. He rolled on.
Levko didn't notice the time. He didn't notice that it was dark around him. He didn't notice that his father was still sleeping next to him.
He was reading.
Kolobok met a bear. Kolobok met a fox. And…
When the fox cunningly ate the bun — and Levko read it himself — he sighed.
— Oh, you, little fox sister…
He closed the book.
The clock on the wall showed it was somewhere around eleven o'clock. Levko had never gone to bed so late.
Dad was still asleep. He was breathing evenly.
Levko carefully threw off the blanket and put his feet in his slippers. He went to the kitchen — his mother was reading her book there (she loved it before bed).
"Mom," Levko whispered from the threshold.
Mom raised her head.
— What, son?
— I… I read it. Myself. Kolobka.
Mom put down the book. Her eyes lit up.
— Whole?
— A whole. Dad fell asleep. I didn't want to wake him. I took the book and read it. One by one. But I read it.
Mom hugged him tightly.
"My little one, you know, I knew you could do it. I was just waiting for you to want it.".
Levko nodded seriously.
"You know what's interesting, Mom?" he asked. "The letters aren't so foreign after all. They were just waiting for me to pay attention. Like friends sitting in the corner waiting to be talked to.".
Mom didn't say anything. She just kissed him on the forehead.
When dad woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't find Levko, he went to the kitchen. And he saw: his son was sitting on his mother's lap, both of them reading his mother's book. Levko ran his finger along the lines. His voice was quiet but clear.
Dad smiled half asleep and went back to sleep.
From that day on, they switched roles.
Now Levko read to his dad while he fell asleep. It became their evening ritual. Dad would lie down on the sofa in the living room, Levko would sit next to a book he had chosen that day from the library. And he would read.
First, short tales. Then longer ones. Then short stories. Then even short stories.
Dad listened, sometimes dozing, sometimes laughing at his imitations of voices (Levko came up with his own - hare, wolf, fox - different from Dad's).
Levko understood: books open when we decide for ourselves. Dad didn't force him. He just lived nearby, reading his love aloud. And Levko believed in his voice one night.
He started reading - forever.
✨ Books open when we decide for ourselves ✨