When my son brought Nadya into our home, I couldn’t hide my astonishment. Standing before me was a modest young woman dressed in plain, worn clothes—as if bought from a second-hand store. Nothing flashy, no expensive accessories or signs of salon care. She seemed ordinary, not at all the kind of woman I had imagined for Andrey.
Of course, we aren’t oligarchs, but we don’t consider ourselves poor either: a cozy apartment in the city center, a car, regular trips to the seaside. And Andrey—ambitious, driven, one of the best law students—had always made me think that a striking, stylish woman would be by his side. Yet he confidently declared:
“Mom, you just don’t know Nadya. She’s genuine. With her, I don’t have to pretend.”
I tried to get used to that idea, but it wasn’t until later that I fully accepted it.
When they decided to get married, I had hoped for at least a modest but dignified wedding. However, Andrey suddenly said that they would simply register their marriage—without any celebration or guests. It turned out that Nadya and her mother couldn’t afford a proper ceremony, and Nadya herself was barely managing to make ends meet by tutoring while studying pedagogy.
I thought it was wrong to let such an important event pass without a proper celebration, so my husband and I booked a table at a cozy café and invited the bride’s mother—a woman I had never seen before.
When Lida Mikhailovna entered the café, I could barely contain my surprise. She wore an old, worn coat and a modest headscarf. From her hesitant glance and awkward movements, it was clear she felt out of place, as if she had accidentally wandered in.
We spent the evening warmly and homely, without any pretense. At the end of dinner, the bride’s mother handed me a small envelope.
“I don’t want all the expenses to fall on you. Here’s a little something, so I can feel at ease.”
“Oh, come now, Lida Mikhailovna, you don’t have to…”
“No, no—please, don’t offend me.”
I accepted the envelope. Inside were three thousand hryvnias. I immediately handed the money over to the newlyweds.
While Andrey was looking for a job, he and Nadya stayed with us. It was during that time that I truly understood why my son loved her so much. This young woman was kind, patient, and sincere. And every week, Lida Mikhailovna would deliver bags of homemade goods to us: milk, eggs, vegetables, honey…
Soon enough, Andrey secured a job, and the young couple moved into a rented apartment.
Recently, on Lida Mikhailovna’s birthday, Nadya planned to visit her. I suggested:
“Why don’t we all go together? We can bring something along.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure… She doesn’t celebrate and is embarrassed by her home.”
“Well, so what? It’s just a family visit.”
When we arrived, I was stunned. A small, ramshackle house stood before us, with two dilapidated stables nearby. Lida Mikhailovna still keeps a cow and chickens, grows her own vegetables, and works as a postwoman—delivering newspapers and letters around the village on an old bicycle.
I looked at her with deep respect. She lived a hard life, yet never complained or asked for help. Every gesture, every word spoke of incredible resilience.
Before we left, I handed her an envelope containing five thousand hryvnias.
“This is from the heart, in honor of your birthday. I just didn’t have time to buy you a gift.”
“What gift? Really!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up.
“Don’t argue. Besides, you bring us so many groceries every week.”
I wanted to help her further—maybe take her to a beauty salon or buy her some new clothes. But how could I do it without hurting her pride?
