— Have you completely lost your mind?! — his voice thundered. — An electrician? A mechanic?! Why did we even bother educating you? Why did we hire tutors? So you could end up milking cows and washing your husband’s clothes in some village?!
******
Those two chairs stood empty all evening.
Roman had made them himself, just a week before the wedding. Oak chairs, with tall, intricately carved backs, heavier than any others. He placed them at the head of the long table, right next to the bride and groom. Nadya had asked him to. She spoke quietly, almost embarrassed by her own hope: “Let them be. Maybe they’ll come.”
The guests squeezed onto benches, sitting wherever they could find a spot, but no one touched those two seats. The neighbor, Hanna Ostapivna, even placed an embroidered towel over each chair so none of the men would accidentally collapse into one after a few rounds. Every once in a while, Nadya glanced at the wooden gate. Whenever the sound of an engine came from the road, her back straightened involuntarily.
The car never arrived.
Late at night, when the guests had all gone home and only crumbs of wedding bread and a half-finished drink remained on the table, Roman silently carried the chairs to the hallway. He didn’t say a word. He just placed them carefully against the wall, straight and neat, as if they might still be needed.
* * *
Lyudmila Andriivna and Oleg Stepanovych had never doubted what their only daughter’s life would look like. In their spacious four-room apartment in the city center, everything was planned out, like a menu at a big anniversary celebration.
Prestigious university. An advantageous marriage, ideally to the son of one of Oleg Stepanovych’s business partners. An apartment in a new development with all the renovations, which her parents would help secure. Afterwards, Sunday lunches where both families would arrive in expensive cars.
Oleg Stepanovych ran a chain of building supply stores. There was always money in the family, and he sincerely believed that with this kind of support, nothing could threaten his daughter’s future.
But Nadya saw her life differently.
Quiet, with shoulder-length light brown hair and gray eyes that always seemed to hold a secret thought. After graduating from philology, she turned down a comfortable job at her father’s company. Instead, she found a position as a Ukrainian language and literature teacher in a remote Polissia village—a place no one else wanted to go because the previous teacher had retired and young people from the city weren’t exactly lining up. Nadya packed two suitcases and left.
Her parents just waved her off.
“She’ll get over it,” her mother said at dinner. “After a month trudging through mud, without a proper shower or any coffee shops, she’ll beg to come home.”
A month passed. Then another. Then winter came.
Nadya didn’t return.
She unexpectedly loved this rugged, unhurried life. The morning mists above the marshes, when the pines stood knee-deep in fog. The scent of pine resin and smoke. The crackle of the fire in the stove while the wind howled outside. But what she loved most were the children, so captivated by her lessons that some forgot to close their mouths.
Tarasik, the rambunctious eighth grader, once gave her a crumpled note with a poem about a stork—the very first he’d ever written. Nadya kept that note in her planner.
That same December, the school’s power went out in the middle of a lesson. The principal called the forestry office, and within half an hour a tall, broad-shouldered young man showed up in a work jacket, toolbox in hand. In an hour he’d fixed the fuse box—and then, without being asked, repaired a leaky faucet and the classroom door that nobody could ever shut properly.
“Do you always do this much?” Nadya asked.
“Do what?” he replied, unsure.
“More than you’re asked.”
Roman shrugged and smiled for the first time that day.
“Why make two trips?”
* * *
A year later, Nadya called her mother. She held her phone in her hand for a long time before hitting the button.
“Mom… Dad… I’m getting married.”
“Oh, Nadya!” Lyudmila Andriivna cried. “To who? When did this happen? Someone we know? Someone from the city?”
“No, mom. His name is Roman. He was born here. He works as an electrician at the forestry office, and he also repairs engines. We’ve already sent in our application. The wedding is in a month.”
A heavy silence followed, so deep Nadya could hear the line crackling.
Then her father took the phone.
— Have you completely lost your mind?! — his voice thundered. — An electrician? A mechanic?! Why did we even bother educating you? Why did we hire tutors? So you could end up milking cows and washing your husband’s clothes in some village?!
“Dad, Roman is a good man,” Nadya replied calmly, though her legs were shaking. “He’s kind. You can depend on him. He’s already building a house. I love him. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Love, you say!” her father scoffed. “That kind of love lasts only until your first pair of worn boots and an empty wallet! There will be no wedding. Pack your things. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow.”
“No.”
She was twenty-four, and for the first time in her life she said “no” to her father in a way that left him speechless.
“I’m not going anywhere. We’ve made our decision. I’m inviting you both to the wedding. If you love me, come. Please.”
Her mother snatched the phone.
“Listen to me carefully. If you marry this country boy—forget our number. You have no parents. And we have no daughter. I won’t be humiliated in front of everyone! For my child to marry an ordinary laborer? That’s shame on our entire city!”
The line went dead.
Nadya sat on a stool in her small rented room at Grandma Zoia’s, staring at her phone. She waited for her mother to call back, to say she’d overreacted, that she didn’t mean it.
The phone stayed silent.
She buried her face in her hands and cried. She was ready for arguments, for anger, for disagreement—but to be renounced in a single sentence? Hadn’t her parents always wanted her happiness?
The door creaked softly. Roman entered, still in his jacket with raindrops on his shoulders. He looked at her and understood everything without a word.
He walked over and rested his heavy, warm hands on her shoulders. Dark oil stains showed on his fingers, stains that no soap could ever scrub off.
“They’re not coming?” he asked quietly.
Nadya only nodded.
“Hey, hey… Do you hear me?” He crouched next to her so he could look her straight in the eyes. “You have me. And everyone here already counts you as their own. We’ll get through this, Nadya. Absolutely we will.”
That’s why she later asked for those two chairs. Because, deep down, she never believed her own family could really keep such a promise.
But they did.
* * *
Five years passed.
For Nadya and Roman they were tough, filled with work from dawn to dusk, but they were happy—the kind of happy you feel when you build every brick of your life with your own hands.
Roman turned out to be one of those people who bring everything they touch to life. In just two years, almost on his own and only sometimes calling in the village men for help, he built a two-story house out of light-colored timber on a high bank above the river. Then he built a bathhouse. Then two greenhouses. And one spring, he brought home three beehives from a friend of his grandfather’s, and beekeeping became his relaxation.
Soon the forestry office felt too small for Roman. He left to open his own workshop, where he repaired the hydraulics of logging trucks, tractors, and all kinds of heavy machinery. At first, only drivers he knew came. Then friends of friends. Within a year, trucks lined up from all over the district. Work was steady, and money began to appear in their home—honest money, earned by their own hands.
Nadya stayed at the school. At twenty-five, she gave birth to twins: Danylo and Zlata. Roman carved two wooden storks—one a bit bigger, one a bit smaller—and hung them above the nursery door, as if they were flying together.
When the twins were two weeks old, Nadya printed a photograph: two tiny bundles, nose to nose. On the back, she wrote: “Mom, you have grandchildren. Danylo and Zlata.” She mailed it to her parents’ address.
There was no reply.
Every year on her birthday, Nadya caught herself keeping the phone nearby until evening. Then she’d turn it face down and go bathe the kids.
But in their house above the river, there was something no amount of money could buy: the peaceful certainty that you are among your own and that you have nothing to fear for tomorrow.
* * *
But in the city, in those five years, everything turned upside down…
Two chairs sat empty the whole evening.
Roman had made them himself, just a week before the wedding. Made of oak, with tall, carved backs, heavier than any of the others. He placed them at the head of the long table, right next to the newlyweds. Nadya had asked him to. She spoke quietly, almost embarrassed by her own hope: «Let them stay. Maybe they’ll show up.»
The guests squeezed together on benches, sitting wherever there was room, but no one took those two seats. Their neighbor Hanna Ostapivna even placed an embroidered towel on each to make sure one of the men, after a few drinks, didn’t end up sitting there by mistake. Nadya kept glancing at the wooden gate. Whenever she heard an engine rumble down the road, she would straighten up without thinking.
But the car never came.
Late at night, when the guests had finally left and all that was left on the table were crumbs from the wedding bread and a half-finished compote, Roman silently carried the chairs into the entryway. He didn’t say a word. He just placed them carefully against the wall, straight and neat, as if they might still be needed.
* * *
Lyudmyla Andriyivna and Oleh Stepanovych never doubted what their only daughter’s life would look like. In their spacious four-room apartment in the center of the regional capital, everything was planned in advance, down to the last detail, like a menu for a jubilee celebration.
A prestigious university. A lucrative marriage—preferably to the son of one of Oleh Stepanovych’s business partners. An apartment in a new building, fully renovated, which her parents would help her buy. After that, Sunday dinners with both families showing up in expensive cars.
Oleh Stepanovych owned a chain of construction material stores. Their family always had money, and he was truly convinced that with this kind of support, nothing in life could threaten his daughter.
But Nadya herself envisioned her life completely differently.
Quiet, with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair and gray eyes that always seemed deep in thought. After she finished her degree in philology, she turned down a cozy position at her father’s company. Instead, she found a job teaching Ukrainian language and literature in a remote village in Polissya—nobody else wanted to go there since the previous teacher had retired and young people from the city weren’t interested. She packed two suitcases and left.
Her parents just threw up their hands.
«She’ll get it out of her system,» her mother said over dinner. «After a month of mud, with no proper shower, no coffeeshops, she’ll come running back home herself.»
A month passed. Then another. Then winter came.
Nadya didn’t return.
She unexpectedly fell in love with this life—so harsh and unhurried. The morning mist over the marshes, the pine trees standing knee-deep in fog. The scent of resin and smoke. The hum of the oven as it burned, while a snowstorm raged outside. But most of all, she loved the children who listened to her lessons, forgetting to even close their mouths.
Taras, an eighth grader and the biggest troublemaker at school, once brought her a wrinkled page with a poem about a stork—the first poem he’d ever written. Nadya kept that scrap tucked in her notebook.
That December, in the middle of a lesson, the lights went out at school. The principal called the forestry office, and within half an hour, a tall, broad-shouldered young man in a work jacket, toolbox in hand, appeared in the doorway. In an hour, he had fixed the fuse box, then—without anyone asking—he repaired a leaky faucet that had been dripping since autumn and adjusted the classroom door that no one could ever get to close right.
«Do you always do this?» Nadya asked him.
«Do what?» he replied, not understanding.
— More than you asked for.
Roman shrugged and smiled for the first time that day:
— Well, why make two trips?
* * *
A year later, Nadya dialed her mother. She held the phone in her hand for a long time before finally pressing the button.
— Mom… Dad… I’m getting married.
— Oh, Nadya! — Lyudmila Andriivna cried out. — To whom? When did you have time? Is it someone we know? Did someone come from the city?
— No, Mom. His name’s Roman. He’s from here, born and raised. Works as an electrician at the forestry, also repairs engines. We’ve already filed the application. The wedding’s in a month.
There was such a silence on the line that Nadya could hear the static crackling somewhere along it.
Then her father took the phone.
— Are you completely out of your mind?! — his voice thundered. — An electrician? A mechanic?! Why did we put you through school? Why did we hire tutors for you? So that you’d end up milking cows in a village and washing your husband’s work clothes?!
— Dad, Roman is a good person, — Nadya spoke calmly, even though her knees were trembling. — He’s kind. I can rely on him. He’s already building a house. I love him. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?
— She loves him! — her father scoffed. — That kind of love will last only until the first pair of worn-out boots and an empty wallet! There will be no wedding. Pack your things. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow.
— No.
She was twenty-four, and for the first time in her life, she told her father «no» in such a way that he fell silent.
— I’m not going anywhere. We’ve made our decision. I’m inviting both of you to the wedding. If you love me, please come. I’m asking you.
Her mother snatched the phone.
— Then listen to me closely. If you marry that villager, forget our number. You have no parents. And we have no daughter. I’m not going to be embarrassed in front of our acquaintances! For my child to become the wife of a simple laborer? That’s shame for the whole city!
The short beeps of a broken connection.
Nadya sat on a stool in the small room she rented from Granny Zoya, staring at her phone. She waited for her mother to call her back. To say she was just upset. To say none of this was serious.
The phone stayed silent.
She covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. She was ready for anger, arguments, rejection — but to be cast off in a single sentence? Hadn’t they wanted her happiness all these years?
The door creaked softly. Roman entered, still wearing his jacket, with tiny raindrops on his shoulders. He looked at her and understood everything without a word.
He came up and placed his heavy, warm hands on her shoulders. There were dark traces of grease on his fingers — the kind that no soap could ever wash away completely.
— They’re not coming? — he asked quietly.
Nadya only nodded.
— Hey, hey… Can you hear me? — he knelt down beside her so he could look her in the eye. — You have me. And everyone here already treats you as one of their own. We’ll get through this, Nadya. More than that, we’ll thrive.
That’s why she later asked for those two extra chairs. Because until the very end, she didn’t believe her family would actually keep their word.
But they did.
* * *
Five years went by.
For Nadya and Roman, they were tough years, filled with work from dawn till dusk, but they were the happiest years — the kind that come when you lay every brick with your own hands.
Roman was one of those people whose touch seemed to bring everything to life. In just two years, and mostly on his own—occasionally calling on some village men for help—he built a two-story house of bright timber on the high bank above the river. Then he put up a sauna. Then two greenhouses. And then, one spring, he brought home three beehives from an old friend. The apiary became his way to relax.
Soon, the forestry business felt too small for Roman. He left and opened his own workshop, where he repaired the hydraulics of logging trucks, tractors, and all kinds of heavy machinery. At first, only driver friends came by. Then, friends of friends started arriving. Within a year, people from all over the district were bringing their vehicles to his hangar. The work never stopped, and for the first time, there was real money in the house—honestly earned with his own hands.
Nadya stayed at her job in the school. At twenty-five, she gave birth to twins: Danylo and Zlata. Above the kids’ room door, Roman carved two wooden storks—one a bit bigger, the other a bit smaller—and hung them so they looked like they were flying together.
When the babies were two weeks old, Nadya printed one photo: two little bundles in blankets, nose to nose. On the back, she wrote: «Mom, you have grandkids now. Danylo and Zlata.» She sent it by mail to her parents’ address.
No reply ever came.
Every year on her birthday, Nadya caught herself holding her phone close until evening. Then she’d put it face down and go bathe the children.
But in the house by the river, there was something money could never buy: the quiet certainty that your people are close by, and you don’t need to fear tomorrow.
* * *
Meanwhile, everything in the city turned upside down over those five years.
Oleh Stepanovych’s business was the first to start crumbling. Huge building supply chains moved into the region, offering discounts, promotions, and next-day delivery. One by one, they squeezed out the smaller shops.
Oleh Stepanovych clung to his business with everything he had. He borrowed money from banks, put up property as collateral, invested in new stores—he was convinced he just had to weather the hard times.
But things only got worse.
Ludmyla Andriivna refused to see how serious things had become for a long time. She was used to living large: trips to the sea twice a year, beauty salons, restaurants, and clothes from expensive boutiques. Giving that up was simply too much for her.
But the debts kept growing, like a snowball rolling downhill.
When Oleh Stepanovych turned fifty-eight, the bank finally froze all his company’s accounts. Their apartment in the city center went up for sale. That day, after signing the final papers, he stepped out onto the bank’s porch, leaned on the handrail, and stood there for a long time, unable to move—as if the core of him had been taken away in a single morning.
From then on, he was a different man. Within a few weeks, he aged ten years. His face turned gray, his back stooped, and now he shuffled along with a cane.
The apartment, the cars, the country house—everything went to pay off the debts. The friends he’d spent years sharing lavish tables and expensive drinks with disappeared so quickly, it was as if they had never even existed. Without money or influence, he realized he was needed by no one.
Lyudmyla Andriyivna rented a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the edge of town, up on the top floor of a five-story building. The windows froze around the edges every winter, and the radiator barely gave off any heat. Her money only just covered bread and the bills.
At fifty-five, life hit her harder than ever before, stripping away nearly all the pride she used to have.
* * *
Late one October evening, she sat on a sagging sofa, watching her husband as he slept. He had tucked his hand under his cheek, looking just like a child.
Then she opened her bag. Wedged between a stack of old discount cards she could never bring herself to throw out, there was a photograph. Two babies, faces pressed together. The edges were worn white, since she had carried it with her every single day for five years. She would take it out when no one was watching. And then tuck it right back in.
Lyudmyla Andriyivna picked up her old button phone. She knew her daughter’s number by heart, even though she hadn’t dialed it once in all these years. Her fingers trembled so much that she hit the wrong last digits twice.
The ringing seemed to go on forever.
«Hello?» The voice was calm and grown-up. More confident than she remembered.
«Honey…»
And she couldn’t say anything else. She just burst into tears, sobbing into the phone like a little girl.
«Nadya… your father is completely worn out… We lost everything. They took our apartment, they took everything… We have nowhere to go, darling. Forgive us. If you can, please forgive…»
The words tumbled out, disjointed—company, debts, bank, an empty fridge, electricity bills piling up with no way to pay them.
Nadya listened in silence. She didn’t feel smug or bitter satisfaction at the thought that her parents—who once saw themselves as masters of their world—were now asking for help from the daughter they had pushed away. She just felt a deep, aching pain for her mother.
She closed her eyes.
«Mom, get ready. Tomorrow, there’s a bus leaving the station for our town at seven in the morning. We’ll be waiting for you.»
«And… what about him?» her mother asked barely above a whisper. «Your Roman… He won’t mind?»
Nadya glanced toward the kitchen. Roman stood in the doorway, waving his hand: bring them, bring them.
«Mom, he’s the one telling me right now to invite you both.»
* * *
The journey took almost six hours.
The old bus smelled of diesel and strangers’ pastries, bouncing over every pothole. Pines, wet meadows tinged with autumn’s rust scrolled past the windows, and up in the gray sky, a wedge of cranes flew south.
Oleh Stepanovych didn’t say a word the whole way. He held his walking stick with both hands, staring blankly out the window. Lyudmyla Andriyivna pulled her old gray coat tighter around her, the one she’d once bought just for the dacha.
They were headed to a place where, five years ago, they hadn’t even wanted to come for their only child’s wedding.
Lyudmyla Andriyivna’s imagination painted the worst: A tilted house, mud up to their knees in the yard. A son-in-law in a greasy old jacket, greeting them with a crooked grin and asking, So, who was right after all? She braced herself to quietly listen to whatever he had to say.
They had no other choice.
The bus stopped in the center square of town. With a heavy sigh, the doors opened, and the wind hit their faces with a fine, cold mist.
Lyudmyla Andriyivna stepped onto the asphalt first. Oleh Stepanovych carefully climbed down after her.
A tall, sturdy man in a good autumn jacket was walking toward them.
— Good afternoon, Liudmyla Andriyivna. Good afternoon, Oleh Stepanovych.
She lifted her head and didn’t recognize him at first.
Roman.
The very same village electrician they once thought wasn’t good enough for their daughter. But he had nothing in common with the image she’d been building in her mind for six hours straight. Standing before her was a confident man, with a direct, open gaze so full of calm — more than she had felt her entire life.
Roman didn’t give a wry smile. He didn’t mention a single word from that old phone call. He simply walked up to his father-in-law and took him gently by the arm.
— There’s a step here, careful. Let me take your bag. The car is just around the corner.
Around the corner was a clean, spacious SUV. Roman helped Oleh Stepanovych settle in comfortably, placing their two worn bags—everything they brought from their past life—into the trunk.
The drive to the village passed almost in silence. The parents couldn’t find the words. Their emotions were too mixed—surprise, shame, confusion.
* * *
The SUV stopped in front of a tall wrought-iron gate, and Liudmyla Andriyivna gasped softly.
Beyond the fence rose a two-story house made of light wood. The paths were paved with tiles. Nearby, greenhouses sparkled under the sun, and in the orchard, a row of beehives was tucked away for the winter. Off to the side, a large workshop hangar stood, with a logging truck waiting to be repaired nearby.
On the porch stood Nadya.
In five years, she had become even more beautiful. Every trace of girlish shyness was gone, replaced by a calm confidence and a special inner glow. Two fair-haired, rosy-cheeked little ones clung to her skirt, curiously eyeing the unfamiliar visitors.
Suddenly, the little girl tugged on her mother’s sleeve:
— Mom! Is this the grandma from the photo? The one on our shelf?
Liudmyla Andriyivna stood frozen by the car. She had no idea that in this home, her photo had been on the shelf all these years.
Nadya hurried down the steps. Her mother hadn’t managed to say a word before her daughter wrapped her arms around her and held her tight, hugging her thin, trembling shoulders.
And at that moment, Liudmyla Andriyivna finally broke down. She buried her face in her daughter’s shoulder and sobbed out loud, no longer caring about the neighbors or her own pride.
Roman, meanwhile, helped his father-in-law out of the car and slowly led him to the porch.
— Come in, Oleh Stepanovych. The sauna’s already heated. You can relax after the journey and rest, and then we’ll have dinner. Nadya’s cooked as if we’re expecting half the village.
* * *
That evening, everyone gathered in the big, bright kitchen.
Steam rose from the plate of mushroom roast. On the table were potato pancakes with sour cream, sauerkraut with cranberries, fresh-baked bread, and a jar of golden honey from their own beehives. Danylko and Zlata played on the warm floor in the living room, building a garage for a toy tractor.
Before sitting down, Roman went out to the entryway and carried in two oak chairs with tall carved backs, placing them at the head of the table.
— Take a seat, — he said simply. — They’ve been waiting for you for five years.
Nadya turned toward the window so no one could see her eyes. Liudmyla Andriyivna touched the carvings on the chairback, as if afraid the chair might disappear.
There was hardly any conversation at the table. Oleg Stepanovich sat silently, staring at his hands, then glancing around the warm, lively kitchen. He watched his son-in-law, who hadn’t uttered a single reproach all day, and his daughter, whose face showed pure happiness.
In his mind, Oleg kept hearing his own words from five years ago. About worn-out boots. About an empty wallet. About how she was burying herself in the mud.
He slowly lifted his head. Tears rolled down his hollow, unshaven cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away.
«Roman…»
His voice broke into a rough whisper.
«Son…»
Roman set down his fork and looked calmly at his father-in-law.
«We were certain you wouldn’t make it here,» Oleg Stepanovich finally managed to say. «That you’d live in the mud. And we thought we were the ones who knew best how to live life.»
He swallowed hard.
«We measured everything by money. People, too. But, you see, life decided otherwise. We didn’t just lose an apartment. We became poor inside. Yet everything here with you is real.»
He glanced at his wife, who kept dabbing her eyes with a napkin, then turned back to his son-in-law.
«Forgive us, old fools, if you can. For the wedding we never attended. For all the things we said back then. I’ve lived so many years, but only now do I understand something simple. I thought wealth was in accounts, apartments, cars. But you’re the rich one here, Roman. Because you have golden hands and a generous soul.»
Roman didn’t reply right away. He looked at Nadia. Beneath the table, she quietly squeezed his hand.
Then he picked up a decanter and poured his father-in-law a little of their homemade drink.
«Have a drink, Oleg Stepanovich.»
He put the decanter back in its place.
«What’s done is done. We’re family.»
He paused, then added:
«Stay with us. The house is big—there’s room for everyone. The forest is nearby, the air is fresh, there’s even a sauna. The most important thing now is for you to get back on your feet. We’ll sort out the debts later. We won’t leave you to deal with it alone.»
And, as simply as if discussing the weather:
«We’re family, after all.»
Lyudmila Andriivna reached for her bag hanging on the back of her chair. She pulled out a worn photograph and placed it on the table, between the bread and honey. Two little bundles, nose to nose.
«I’ve carried this with me for five years,» she whispered, not lifting her eyes. «Every single day. But to call… my pride wouldn’t let me. Foolish, foolish pride.»
Nadia covered her mother’s hand with her own, saying nothing. There was nothing that needed to be said.
This time Lyudmila Andriivna cried, not from fear or despair, but from immense relief and the burning shame of words that had once pushed her only daughter away.
That autumn evening, in the large wooden house by the river, the wall built over years by pride, arrogance, and mistaken ideas of worth finally fell. There were no longer wealthy parents and a poor son-in-law. Just a family sitting together at one table. Some had once made mistakes and lost almost everything. Others found the strength not to seek revenge, but to reach out a helping hand.
And in the spring, Oleg Stepanovich went with Roman to the apiary for the first time. Slowly, with a cane and a borrowed net on his head. Danilko ran ahead, showing his grandfather where the angriest bee family lived.
Those two oak chairs never stood in the hallway again.
