My husband has hands that never quite come clean. He scrubs them with a brush under the tap, then takes that yellow paste from a little tin and scrubs again — but there’s always a dark line left under his fingernails. Grease, oil, metal. Twenty-two years of that kind of work.
That evening, I looked at my own hands — smooth, with a €10 manicure done by my neighbor from the third floor — and thought about Taras’s. Because Marynka was just telling us about her husband.
Our class reunion was held at the Verba café near the bus station. Twenty-five years since graduation. Everyone chipped in €16, we booked a small hall, and eighteen people came out of thirty-two. I was forty minutes late: Taras had been called out because the dairy display refrigerator at the supermarket on Kyiv Highway had broken down. By the time he replaced the relay, washed his hands, and changed his clothes, the minibus had already left. We had to wait for the next one in the rain.
I heard Marynka’s voice from the corridor, through the closed door.
“…and can you imagine, girls? He has three hundred people working under him. Three hundred!”
I hung up my coat and went inside. There was only one empty seat left — directly across from her.
“Oh, and here comes our quiet one,” Marynka said, raising her glass of juice. “We were just talking about husbands.”
Someone pushed a plate of cold cuts toward me, and someone else poured me some fruit compote. The Olivier salad was nothing special — too much potato and not enough mayonnaise.
“Three hundred people,” Marynka repeated. “Just imagine the responsibility. He comes home and still spends another two hours on his laptop. I tell him, ‘Get some rest.’ But he can’t. People are waiting for decisions.”
Nelya, who had once shared a school desk with me, leaned closer.
“Where’s yours?”
“At home. He couldn’t come. Work.”
“That’s a shame. What does he do?”
“He repairs refrigeration equipment.”
I said it quietly. But Marynka heard me. Or pretended that she had.
“You know, girls, everyone’s life turns out differently,” she said, as though she were addressing the whole table, even though she was looking directly at me. “Some women get married and their husbands grow, build careers. And some spend their lives with an ordinary manual worker. You know — covered in grease all day, living from one paycheck to the next. That’s a life too. Just a different one.”
The table went quiet. Nelya stared down at her plate. Someone coughed. Yevhen Petrovych, our former math teacher, suddenly started telling the man beside him something about fishing, just to fill the silence.
My face burned. Not from embarrassment — from anger. There were so many things I wanted to say, but it felt as if something had lodged in my throat.
I remembered the previous night. Taras had come home at half past eleven, quietly reheated his dinner, and sat down in the kitchen. I woke up and came out.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” I asked.
“I’m hungry. I’ve got no strength left. Sorry I woke you.”
And he ate the pasta that the microwave had barely warmed through.
An ordinary manual worker.
Taras can tell what’s wrong with a refrigeration unit just by listening to it. He stands beside a display case, listens, puts his palm against the casing — and tells you exactly what the problem is. People call him when everyone else has already thrown up their hands and advised them to buy new equipment. He comes in, and two hours later everything is humming the way it should.
Of course he doesn’t earn what a boss with three hundred employees earns. But our apartment is ours, even if it’s only a two-bedroom place on the fourth floor of a building without an elevator. Our daughter, Yaryna, is studying to become a cook, and last month she brought home the first Napoleon cake she had ever made herself. Our refrigerator is full.
What more do you really need?
But I didn’t say any of that aloud. Marynka would have laughed. Or worse, pitied me. To her, being “good with your hands” wasn’t an argument. She measured life by the number of people you managed and the title written on your résumé.
I remembered her from after-school care. Big bows in her hair, a pencil case with three compartments, always the first to raise her hand — even when she didn’t know the answer. Anything to be noticed.
In ninth grade, we worked together on the class wall newspaper. Or rather, we didn’t work together: she pushed me out of it. She told our teacher that I was holding up the deadlines, even though she was the one causing the delays.
She already knew how to present herself back then.
I met Taras when I was twenty-two. I worked as a sales assistant at a grocery store on Zinkivska Street, and in the middle of July our freezer broke down.
He came, took a look, and said, “This is half a day’s work. The ice cream will melt.”
Then he carried the boxes himself to the neighboring store — twenty-eight trips back and forth in the heat. He didn’t complain once.
I brought him some water, and he thanked me as though I had done something extraordinary for him.
“So what exactly does your husband do?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
Marynka immediately brightened. She had clearly been waiting for that question.
“He’s a regional director for a major retail chain. Food stores. Twenty-eight locations across the region. Every day it’s suppliers, leases, staff. He comes home and his phone never stops ringing. I tell him, ‘Turn it off.’ And he says, ‘I can’t. Business doesn’t wait.’”
“Where do you go on vacation?” Nelya asked, obviously trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.
“We went to the Carpathians last year. We had a room with a terrace overlooking the mountains. €235 a night. But it was worth it. You wake up and the clouds are right at eye level. And there’s complete silence.”
She spoke as though she were reading from a travel brochure.
I remembered that habit of hers. Marynka didn’t simply tell people about her life. She presented it. Just like when she used to stand at the blackboard.
Then the conversation moved on to children. Her daughter attended a private bilingual school, and her son took tennis lessons with a personal coach.
“You can’t save money when it comes to children. It’s an investment.”
I suddenly realized I had been tearing a paper napkin under the table. A little pile of pieces had already collected in my lap.
Then my phone rang.
Taras.
I went out into the corridor. It smelled of food from the kitchen and disinfectant.
“How are you?” he asked. “You’re not cold, are you? It started raining. Want me to come pick you up?”
“No, there’s no need. It’s still early.”
“All right. I’m at the workshop rebuilding two compressors. If you need anything, call me. I’ll come.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Later. There’s only a little left to do.”
His voice was completely ordinary.
I listened, and my nose began to sting.
The man had spent the entire day driving around the city, hauling equipment weighing nearly seventy kilos, and now, instead of eating dinner, he was sitting among spare parts.
And he was worried about whether I was cold.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Say hello to your classmates for me.”
I stood there for another minute until my face settled.
At around ten, a man entered the hall.
Tall, wearing a good suit and carrying an expensive briefcase.
Marynka lit up.
“Oh, that’s mine! He promised he’d stop by!”
Ruslan came over and politely greeted everyone. I had time to look at him properly: his face was gray, there were dark bags under his eyes, and his tie was loosened.
He sat beside his wife, put his briefcase on the next chair, and let out a heavy breath.
You could see that he was barely standing.
“Meet my classmates,” Marynka rattled off, listing names.
She didn’t even introduce me by name.
Ruslan nodded, muttered something polite, and reached toward the sandwiches.
Marynka caught his hand.
“Don’t eat that. You’re not supposed to.”
“I’m hungry.”
“You can wait. You’ll eat at home.”
He pulled his hand back.
He sat there for about two minutes, staring at one spot. Then his phone rang and he went outside.
“See?” Marynka said, watching him leave. “He even came to see me here, even though he had three meetings today and a video conference with headquarters. That’s what a real man looks like.”
When he came back, he looked even more exhausted.
He sat on the edge of the chair and started saying something quietly to his wife. I wasn’t trying to listen, but fragments reached me anyway.
“…they rejected the report… the supplier missed the deadline… tomorrow by eight…”
“You’re a manager, so delegate,” Marynka replied. “Why are you running around like a hamster on a wheel? Hire people.”
“I can’t delegate something I’ll be held responsible for later.”
“Then you’re looking for the wrong people.”
“Maryna. Not now. I’m really tired.”
She fell silent.
And suddenly I saw what I had been missing all evening.
Behind the polished image of a “successful marriage” sat an ordinary, exhausted man. He didn’t sleep enough, ate whatever he could grab, and had no control over his own time.
Three hundred employees meant three hundred problems.
Twenty-eight stores meant twenty-eight headaches.
Around half past eleven, people began leaving.
Nelya caught up with me in the corridor.
“Don’t be upset with Marynka. She’s always been like that. Remember what she did to that new girl in ninth grade just because the girl didn’t want to be friends with her?”
“I’m not upset,” I lied. “It was just unpleasant.”
“I understand.” Nelya hesitated. “My husband lays tiles, by the way. He spends the whole day doing renovations and comes home completely exhausted. But when he gets home, he plays toy cars with our boy, and on Saturdays we go to the pond. If he disappeared into meetings from morning until night, what would be the point?”
Outside, the air smelled of wet asphalt and rotting chestnut leaves.
The minibus arrived twelve minutes later. I sat by the window and wiped the fogged glass with my palm.
The city was growing quiet.
At home, tea was already waiting on the table.
Taras poured me a cup and placed a plate with two sandwiches beside it — cheese and butter.
He knows I come home hungry from gatherings like that because I’m embarrassed to eat much in front of everyone.
“So, how was it?” he asked.
I took a sip of tea.
I wanted to tell him.
But I couldn’t.
Repeating Marynka’s words would only hurt him.
He wouldn’t show it. He would say, “Forget it. People say all kinds of things.”
But I knew him.
He would remember.
And the next time I invited him somewhere, he would find a reason not to go. Not because he was offended. He simply wouldn’t want to put me in an awkward position.
“It was fine. We sat around and talked. Marynka Sobolenko was there. She married some director.”
“Ah, Sobolenko.” Taras smiled. “The one who used to boss everyone around at school?”
“That’s her.”
“And?”
“Still bossing people around.”
He nodded and didn’t ask anything else.
He has always known how not to pry into someone’s soul.
He sat beside me, drinking tea from his favorite mug with the words “Best Repairman” printed on it. His coworkers had given it to him for his birthday.
And I realized that this was exactly what I had been missing all evening.
There was nothing to prove.
No need to justify anything.
No need to perform.
The next morning, the front door slammed shut.
There was a note on the table:
“I’ll be back by seven. Lunch is in the fridge.”
And that refrigerator, by the way, was exactly minus eighteen in the freezer and plus four in the main compartment.
He had adjusted it himself.
About three weeks passed.
Nelya called me.
“Listen, you won’t believe this. Marynka’s husband was laid off. Another company bought the chain and started restructuring — the entire regional management team was cut. She says it’s temporary, that he has offers from other cities. But they don’t want to move.”
Nelya paused.
“I saw her at the store. No makeup, eyes all red. She asked whether anyone needed an English tutor. She used to work part-time at a language school.”
I hung up and sat there for a long time, staring at the wall.
The news didn’t make me happy.
I don’t know how to rejoice in someone else’s misfortune.
That same day Taras was installing a refrigerated display case in a new grocery store.
He came home cheerful.
“The owner’s happy. He’s offering me two more jobs.”
And I thought: as long as there are stores, warehouses, cafés, and cafeterias in this city, my husband will have work.
Refrigerators always break.
And there will always be a need for someone who knows how to repair them.
Not from a laptop.
Not over a video call.
With his hands and twenty-two years of experience.
Then, about a month later, something happened that I couldn’t have imagined even in my wildest thoughts.
Taras came home late, sat down to take off his shoes, and said:
“I was at some woman’s place today. Private service call. Apartment downtown.”
“What was wrong?”
“Just a cheap little relay. Forty minutes of work.”
He paused while untying his shoelaces.
“Lida, her freezer was full of dumplings. Nothing but dumplings and bread. And while I was taking the refrigerator apart, she stood in the kitchen and cried. Quietly. She thought I couldn’t see her.”
I felt cold inside.
“And what did you do?”
“What could I do? Pretended I didn’t notice. Fixed it, washed my hands, and told her it was working. She took out her wallet, and there was…”
He waved his hand.
“I didn’t take any money. Told her it was nothing, and I was passing by anyway.”
“Taras. What was her name?”
“I didn’t ask. Some Maryna. Why?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing.”
I went into the bathroom, turned on the water, and stood there for about five minutes.
Not because of Marynka.
Because the man she had called an ordinary manual worker in front of the entire class had come to her on one of the worst days of her life, seen the dumplings in her freezer, seen her crying — and refused to take her money.
We ran into each other at the supermarket a week later.
She was standing by the frozen-food section, looking at a price label.
I wanted to walk past, but she looked up.
“Hi.”
Her voice sounded nothing like it had at the reunion.
Quiet.
“Hi.”
She put her basket on the floor.
“Lida. Your husband came to my place. To repair the refrigerator.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t realize who he was at first,” she said quickly, as though she were afraid she wouldn’t finish. “He gave his surname when he was writing out the receipt. Then he tore up the receipt and threw it away. And he didn’t take any money. He said it was only fifteen minutes of work, even though he was there for an hour.”
She fell silent.
Her eyes drifted toward the dumplings.
“I said too much that night in front of everyone. About manual workers.”
A pause.
“I’m deeply ashamed.”
“Forget it.”
“No. Don’t forget it.”
She finally looked me in the eye, and I could see she hadn’t been sleeping.
“My whole life, I’ve been trying to prove something. First at school, then later… I kept trying to prove to Ruslan that we weren’t worse than anyone else. I bought things, traveled, told everyone about it. And he sat up at night with that laptop and never said anything. I thought that was what he had chosen. But it was what I chose.”
I didn’t know what to say.
I stood there holding my bag of buckwheat.
“Listen,” I finally said. “The college where Yaryna studies is looking for an English teacher. The pay isn’t amazing, but it’s official employment and includes paid vacation. The deputy principal is Lyuda. I know her. Want me to ask?”
Marynka looked at me as though I had struck her.
“Why would you do that for me?”
“No particular reason. I’ll just ask.”
She nodded, picked up her basket, and quickly walked toward the checkout.
I stood there for another ten seconds, wondering for some reason about that wall newspaper from ninth grade.
That evening, I told Taras everything.
About the reunion.
About the “manual workers.”
About the dumplings.
He listened and scratched the back of his head.
“So that’s why her eyes were red?”
“Probably.”
“Well, look at that. I thought she might be sick.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“Don’t hold a grudge against her. What good would it do you?”
Then he got up, went into the other room, and returned with a folded brochure.
Apparently he had been looking at it for quite a while.
“Listen, why don’t we go somewhere next year? Not to the Carpathians and not to some room with a terrace,” he said with a smile. “But they’ve got packages to a health resort. Something for back problems. My lower back gets so bad sometimes I just want to lie down.”
“Let’s do it.”
We sat in the kitchen until midnight, flipping through photographs, reading reviews, arguing about whether to take a room with a balcony or a simpler one.
An ordinary evening.
Ordinary conversations.
And I felt better than I had felt for a single minute in that banquet hall.
Marynka did end up taking the job at the college, by the way.
She’s already been there for two months.
Nelya says she seems more alive now.
And I still sometimes think about that evening.
When Taras comes home, washes his hands with that same yellow paste, and sits down to drink tea, I look at his fingers with that dark line still visible beneath his nails and understand one simple thing.
I don’t need anyone else.
Around this cup of tea is a quiet, dependable world where you don’t have to report to anyone and you don’t have to prove anything to anybody.
Have you ever stopped to think about what in your life is truly real — and what exists only to impress other people?