⏱ ~4 min reading
On Monday, Nikita came home from school and his mother asked:
— How is your day, son?
"Okay," Nikita replied.
— And the dictation grade?
The dictation was bad. Mykyta got a three. But he didn't want to upset his mother - in the morning, his mother would say: "You're so good at Ukrainian, I'm proud of you.".
"Four," said Nikita.
It was a small lie. It seemed small to him.
Mom smiled and patted his head:
"Well done! You'll show your notebook to your dad in the evening.".
Only then did Nikita understand - a notebook. There was a three in the notebook. The teacher's red pencil.
Nikita went into the room. He sat down at the table. He thought. Should he tell the truth right away? His heart was already pounding a little — like before a physical education lesson when you have to jump from a height.
«"I'll tell Dad - and he'll tell Mom. Or Mom will realize I lied.".
Nikita took a red pencil. With his own hands, he drew a four on top of a three, exactly like the teacher. The pencil didn't quite match the teacher's shade, but from a distance it looked normal.
This was the second invention.
In the evening, Dad looked at the notebook. He nodded. He didn't notice. Nikita sighed with relief. For dinner, he ate dumplings with sour cream with pleasure.
On Tuesday, the teacher returned the notebooks. All of them. Nikita checked his. Luckily, the teacher didn't look again, she gave a new mark for the next lesson.
But on Wednesday there was a family meeting. The teacher said: «Take the notebooks and check them.» Nikita looked - there were four or three of them. If his mother saw it - she would be surprised. Because in the morning there was a four, and now - suddenly two grades?
Nikita came home. He told his mother:
— I didn't get the notebook. The teacher took it away for another check.
The third fiction.
Mom was worried:
"What? Is everything okay?"
— Yes. She does that sometimes.
Fourth - because the teacher didn't do it that way.
On Thursday, my mother's friend, Aunt Zoya, whose son is in the same class, called:
— Have you seen the grades? Nazar has a C, and yours?
Mom was confused:
— Nikita said four. And he hadn't brought his notebook yet — the teacher took it away.
Aunt Zoya was silent:
— That's strange. We handed out the notebooks on Monday.
Mom hung up the phone. She came to see Nikita.
— Nikita. Look me in the eyes. What did they give you for the dictation?
Nikita looked into his mother's eyes. She looked at him calmly, without anger. She was just waiting.
Nikita has a lump in his throat. He has a four out of three. And a third invention. And a fourth. And now he'll say a fifth - and he'll have to invent a sixth, a seventh, and so on ad infinitum.
Nikita cried. Not loudly—just warm tears streaming down his cheeks.
"A, Mom. I lied. And then I changed it in my notebook. And then I said the teacher took it away. And then..."
Mom sat down next to him. She hugged him. Her sweater smelled of her cream and a little coffee—Mom drank it in the morning. Nikita pressed his cheek against the soft sweater.
"Son. See how it is? One lie and it's five. What if you told me right away?"
"I thought you'd be upset.".
— I would be upset. A little. And then we would sit down and talk - why the C, what didn't work out. I would help you with the dictation. And now - I'm sorry. Not for the C. For everything else.
Nikita nodded. He understood that his mother was not upset about the grade. But about the fact that the ball of lies was rolling down the mountain like a snowball, and the further it went, the bigger it got.
Nikita brought a notebook. He showed the real grade — his red transfer was there next to the teacher's — both were visible if you looked closely.
"I'll get her across. I mean, I'll explain it to the teacher. I'll tell the truth.".
— That will be good.
The next day, Nikita went up to the teacher during recess. He told her everything. The teacher looked at him seriously—and then smiled out of the corners of her eyes.
"Well said, sir. We'll correct the notebook. And you can repeat the dictation on Friday. I know you can do it in twelve.".
Nikita nodded. His chest felt light, like after you've thrown off a heavy backpack.
Since then, Nikita knew: one fiction is one fiction. But if you leave it, it begins to multiply. And if you immediately tell the truth, it remains alone. And it melts quickly, like a snowflake in the palm of your hand.
💡 One lie leads to many more.