Grandma Lyuba struggled to lift the bucket of icy water from the pump and, heavily moving her feet, walked along the well-trodden path toward the house. The frost tickled her face, her fingers slipped restlessly on the rusty handle. Right by the door, she stopped to catch her breath: set one bucket on the step, reached for the second… and suddenly slipped.
“Oh, Lord!..” she barely managed to whisper before collapsing to the ground.
Her shoulder painfully hit the edge of the step, the back of her head responded with a dull, aching pain. For several seconds, the woman lay still, unable to move.
Then she tried to get up — but her legs wouldn’t obey. It felt as if she were cut off at the waist. Gasping from pain and fear, she began to crawl toward the door, grabbing onto anything within reach: an old stool, a broken broom, the edge of her own skirt. Her back ached, her forehead was covered in sweat, everything around blurred and swayed.
“Come on, Lyubanya… come on…” she muttered under her breath, climbing onto the old sofa in the hallway.
The phone lay on the windowsill. With trembling fingers, she dialed her son’s number.
“Pashenka… son… I’m not well… come…,” she whispered and lost consciousness.
By evening, Pavel arrived. He burst into the house with a crash, letting in cold air. Without a hat, wind-tousled, he froze in the doorway, seeing his mother half-lying on the couch.
“Mom… what’s wrong?” he approached, carefully taking her hand. “God, she’s freezing cold…”
Without hesitation, he called his wife.
“Olya, come quickly… Yes, she’s really bad… Looks like she can’t move at all.”
Grandma Lyuba heard everything, though her face showed no emotion. Inside, hope flared up: her son was scared, which meant he cared. Maybe the family would finally come together? Maybe they would save her?
She tried to move her legs — unsuccessfully. Only the tips of her toes twitched slightly. And suddenly she began to cry — not from pain, but from the thought that perhaps not all was lost yet.
Olya appeared only two days later. She stood at the doorway holding Anya’s hand, irritated, tired, as if she had been pulled away from important business.
“Well, you’ve gone and done it, old woman,” she hissed through clenched teeth, casting a glance at her mother-in-law. “Lie there like a log now, since that’s how it turned out.”
Anya clung to her mother’s hand, looking anxiously at her grandmother. Grandma tried to smile, but her face wouldn’t obey.
Olya entered the house without even saying hello. Pavel took her to the kitchen. They spoke quietly but tensely. Grandma Lyuba couldn’t catch the words but felt the bitterness and ill meaning in the conversation.
After a couple of minutes, her son returned. He approached, silently lifted her in his arms.
“Where to?..” she whispered.
He didn’t answer. Only pressed his lips into a thin line. She wrapped her arms around his neck, inhaling a familiar scent — a mix of machine oil and tobacco.
“To the hospital?..” she asked again.
Silence. Only his footsteps quickened.
But he didn’t go to the hospital. He carried her past the house, to the annex — where they used to store potatoes, old skis, and iron buckets. The cold seeped through her clothes, wind blew through cracks in the window, the floor was covered with cracked boards. It smelled of dampness and neglect.
Pavel laid her on a hard bench covered with a worn blanket.
“You’ll lie here,” he said, not looking into her eyes. “It’s too late to change anything now. You’re almost eighty, Mom.”
He turned and left without letting her say a word.
Shock crept in slowly but completely. Grandma Lyuba lay, unblinking, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cold seep under her skin. Why was he like this? Why?
Images of the past floated before her eyes: how she raised her son alone, how she worked as a cleaner, how she bought him a jacket on credit. How she paid for the wedding because her daughter-in-law’s parents turned away — “not a match, uneducated.”
“And I always stood up for him like a mountain…” she whispered, unable to believe what was happening.
She also remembered Olya — always reserved, sharp-tongued, never a warm word, not a drop of gratitude for help. At least she could have come once by herself, without waiting to be asked. But no — only once for the granddaughter’s birthday.
And now she lay here, in a cold shack, like unwanted trash. Not even knowing if she would live till morning.
Each day, the certainty that something terrible was happening grew stronger. Pavel came less often — putting down a bowl of soup and disappearing immediately. Olya sometimes opened the door, cast a quick glance from afar to check if she was still alive.
But one morning, Grandma Lyuba heard a stranger’s voice outside the window — cheerful, lively.
“Nice house. Bright, spacious. Is there gas?”
“Of course,” Olya replied. “Want me to show you the kitchen?”
Grandma Lyuba froze. Her heart pounded. Could it be? Were they planning to sell the house?
Later, voices reached her — someone praising the bathhouse, asking about the foundation. She felt like a thing not yet buried, but already being sold. Tears flowed silently into her pillow — hot, wordless.
“So that’s it…,” flashed through her mind. “They don’t want to help me. I’m a nuisance. And the house is a profitable deal.”
She lay still, only her lips slightly moving — whispering long-forgotten prayers. And suddenly — a slight, barely noticeable movement in her right hand. She froze. Tried again — yes, the fingers obeyed. Her voice was returning too — hoarse, but alive.
She tried to lift her head — to call for help… but froze again. No. They would hear. Think she was delirious. Or maybe finish her off.
“Be quiet, old woman… be quiet…” she whispered, as if making a vow.
Two days passed in silence until a new scandal broke out. Voices behind the wall sounded loud and irritated. Through the cracks in the door, every word was heard.
“Why did you let her go barefoot?!” Pavel shouted.
“And where were you? She ran after the doll, I didn’t notice!”
“She has a fever! Her whole body is shaking!”
“Am I a doctor? Call your paramedic — Mikhail!”
The name hit like thunder on a clear day. Grandma Lyuba shuddered. Mikhail… She had heard about him. People said different things: some that he had been in prison for a fight, others for something worse. But he worked. Because there was no one else.
Grandma Lyuba tensed. Wanted to say, “I have honey, jam, linden brooms… I would help.” But she lay forgotten, helpless. Anya was sick, and she couldn’t even bring water to her granddaughter.
Inside, everything tightened — humiliation, fear, helplessness. But deep inside, something else flickered. Hope. Maybe Mikhail would understand. See the truth.
When the door burst open and a stranger entered the room, she immediately knew — it was him. Mikhail. Confident steps, professional examination. He spoke quietly, examining Anya. Before leaving, he said:
“Where is the lady of the house?”
Pavel faltered. A pause hung in the room. Grandma Lyuba froze. Wanted to scream — but couldn’t. Only her eyes opened wide, full of pain and hope.
She twitched, reached out — accidentally knocked a cup off the chair. It fell with a dull thud.
“Oh…” Pavel hurried to hide the traces. “Don’t pay attention. Mom is in a nursing home. We’re here temporarily. Selling the house…”
Mikhail said nothing. Nodded and left. But his gaze — calm, sharp — touched something inside Grandma Lyuba.
A little later the annex door flung open abruptly. Pavel stormed in, his face twisted with rage.
“What are you doing?! Crazy?! Knocking over cups?!” he loomed over her, breathing heavily with anger. “Not a sound more, hear me?! Not a single extra move!”
He swore and slammed the door, leaving her alone. Her heart pounded, her throat tightened with a lump. But deep in her heart, a flicker passed: “He understood. Mikhail understood…”
At night she was woken by a faint creak. The door… someone gently pushed it. Grandma Lyuba tensed. Heart stopped. Darkness thickened, every rustle seemed threatening.
“Is it Pavel?.. Or Olya?.. Maybe they forgot to close the window…”
Quiet steps. A flashlight beam slipped through the cracks. A man entered the room. Grandma Lyuba squinted. The face was not visible, but the voice… that voice she recognized.
“It’s me, Mikhail…” he whispered, sitting down nearby.
She sobbed. Wanted to rush to him, but only her fingers trembled. He sat down next to her, gently took her hand. She squeezed his fingers with all her might.
“I knew… I knew you’d come…” she whispered.
“Quiet, quiet. I won’t stay long.”
Mikhail carefully turned her on her side, began to feel her back. She winced but did not pull away.
“Here, between the lower back and the sacrum. A pinched nerve. But not hopeless.”
He took out oil, began a massage — first gently
