⏱ ~3 min reading
Mitya loved to go with his father to his workshop. His father's workshop was in the corner of the yard - a small outbuilding with a wooden door. Inside it smelled of shavings, oil and wood glue. There were tools there - hammers, planes, drills, wooden blocks of all sizes.
Dad made shelves, children's chairs, boxes. Sometimes toys. Mitya loved to watch something beautiful being born from a crooked bar.
But there was one problem: the door.
The door to the workshop was heavy. Old, oak, with an iron handle that had to be pressed down and slightly towards you at the same time - otherwise it wouldn't open. Dad opened it easily. Mom - too. But Mitya - not.
When Mitya came alone, the door wouldn't budge. He pressed the handle. Pulled. Pushed. The handle would go down and then go back up. The door stood there as if it had been bewitched.
"Why aren't you opening the door?" Mitya asked at the door.
The doors were silent.
One Saturday, Mitya really wanted to go to the workshop, because there was a small wooden boat that his father had been making for him. The boat was missing a mast - Mitya wanted to help glue it on.
Dad went to the store. Mitya ran to the workshop, stood by the door. Pushed. Pulled. Pushed.
Nothing.
Once more. Pushed harder. Pulled.
Nothing.
Once again. His fingers ached. Mitya stamped his foot in anger and shouted loudly:
"I can't! I never will!"
Mom came out of the house. She was wiping her hands on her apron.
— What happened, son?
"The door won't open. It opens for Dad. It doesn't open for me.".
Mom smiled. She walked to the door. She squatted down to be on the same level as Mitya.
— Show me how you do it.
Mitya pressed the handle. Pulled.
"Here. You see, nothing.".
Mom nodded.
"Do you know what you're doing wrong?"
— What?
"You're forgetting a little secret. Look.".
Mom placed her hand on top of Mitya's. Her fingers were warm.
— You press the handle once. Do you hear it click? Right now. And now you lift it a little. The door is old, it has sunk a little on its hinges. You have to lift it while you push. Try it.
Mitya pressed the handle. He heard a click. He lifted it a little and pushed.
The door gave in. It opened slowly, with a creak.
Mitya gasped.
— Mom!
"You see. You just need to know.".
"What if I forget tomorrow?"
"Then practice. Close it now. And open it again. Without me.".
Mitya nodded seriously. He closed the door—it slammed hard. He tried to open it.
This time I did everything myself - pressed, heard a click, lifted it a little, pushed.
Opened.
Mitya laughed. Closed it again. Opened it. Closed it. Opened it.
Tenth time. Twelfth. Twentieth.
Mom had already gone back to the house — and Mitya kept practicing. He got hungry. Sweat broke out on his forehead. But he wanted to prove: I can do it.
When dad returned from the store, Mitya was standing near the workshop, very proud.
"Dad! Look!"
Mitya opened the door with one easy movement, like a true master.
Dad stopped. He put down his bag. He raised his eyebrows.
"Wow! Who taught you that?"
— Mom showed me. And I practiced myself.
Dad squatted down and hugged his son.
"You know, son. The most important thing is not to give up. Whoever tries again, all doors open.".
Mitya was beaming. He and his father went inside the workshop. They glued the mast to the boat. They drew a blue star on the sail.
From that day on, Mitya came to the workshop alone. And every time the handle clicked under his fingers, he remembered: one time it doesn't work, the second time it doesn't work — and the third time it already unlocks.
💡 Doors open to those who try one more time.