The day was ordinary, like many others — fatigue weighed down after a long meeting, my head buzzing from the endless flow of information. In my bag were packages: buckwheat, milk, napkins for my son’s school. I was walking home, almost at the entrance to the building, when suddenly I heard a quiet voice:
— Well, I’ve lived my life… Nobody needs me.
I slowed down. It was Grandma Zina from the neighboring entrance — she lives on the third floor. Sitting on a bench, small and bent over like a question mark, in an old brown coat and headscarf, with a cane between her knees. She was staring into the distance as if speaking not to me or anyone in particular, but simply to the world.
I took a few more steps but something sharply stopped me inside. I turned around and walked back.
— Grandma Zina, why do you say that?
She flinched, slowly turned her gaze to me.
— Why? No children. Almost all my friends are gone. Neighbors say hello, and that’s it. So I talk to myself, as usual.
I sat down next to her, putting my packages on the ground. We hadn’t really talked before — just elevator greetings, a quick hello and goodbye. But now my heart clenched. I just couldn’t pass by.
— Have you been to the doctor recently?
— Why? Who needs a sick old woman?
— I do, for example, — I answered.
She looked at me carefully, as if seeing me for the first time. And suddenly asked:
— What’s your name?
— Dasha.
— Oh… you’re Vera’s daughter from the fifth floor, right?
— Yes. Lyoshka is my son, Vera’s grandson. We’ve been living here for eight years now.
— Vera… she was a kind woman. May she rest in peace. Well, alright, Dasha. Be honest — why are you sitting here with me?
— Because I just can’t walk past. You said it so sadly…
— That’s true. But thank you. Come again. We’ll have some tea. If you’re not afraid of an old crank.
I smiled:
— I’m not afraid. I’ll drop by tomorrow after work.
— Promise?
— Honestly.
That’s how our strange but real neighborly relationship began.
The next evening, I brought her some pies from work.
— Just make sure they’re hot, be careful, — I warned.
— Hot, you say… — she said thoughtfully. — Back in the day, Baba Klava used to bake pies that made the whole building smell. Everyone got one — six pans at once!
She talked for a long time; I listened and nodded. We ate two pies each, then I washed the cups, and she gave me a jar of jam.
— Gooseberry. I made it myself last year.
— Thank you!
— Just don’t eat it out of politeness. Once my granddaughter did that — “delicious, granny,” but then found the jar open in the trash.
— It’s not like that with me, — I said quietly.
— I see.
Day by day, we grew closer. After a couple of weeks, we switched to informal “you.” Sometimes she called me Dasha, sometimes she treated me like a granddaughter:
— You’re like a granddaughter to me now.
— Wow! Is that official?
— Of course. Just no papers.
Her apartment smelled of old books, candies, and something very cozy. Grandma Zina didn’t complain much — she mostly told stories. About youth, dancing, how she and her husband built a summer house, about her son who moved to Germany and hadn’t called in a long time.
— He’s not a bad man. It’s just that his life is there, and mine is here. And still, I miss him.
We sat in the evenings, drank tea, sometimes I stayed only half an hour after dinner.
— Doesn’t your husband get mad? — she asked.
— I don’t have a husband. No one to get mad at. Only Lyoshka sometimes asks, “Are you going to Grandma Zina again?”
— Smart boy. He sees that Grandma Zina is quite a star.
— Exactly.
One day, I peeked into her fridge and realized she was struggling. Expired yogurt, a couple of eggs, bread, and a handful of pills.
— Grandma Zin, why do you eat like this?
— Pension goes to utilities. And I have no appetite.
I said nothing. The next day I brought a container of borscht, a chicken thigh, and salad.
— Are you crazy? — she asked surprised. — Are you rich or something?
— Everything’s fine. I just know how hard it is for you. We cook anyway — Lyoshka takes three portions. You get some.
— I don’t like to take…
— Then don’t. Just accept. It’s not the same thing.
She didn’t answer, just kissed me on the forehead.
On the weekend, I offered to take her to the doctor — her leg hurt badly. At first she resisted, then agreed.
— Be honest, why are you doing this? — she asked.
I started the car, looked at her:
— Because once I heard you say you’re nobody’s need. And I understood — it’s not true. I want you to know that, too.
She cried.
— You’re kind, Dasha. So genuine.
— And you’re my very own. The best.
From that day our bond deepened. Sometimes we went to the pharmacy, then to my place or hers — whoever cooked. We warmed food, listened to the radio, talked about everything. No pretense, no pomp. Just together.
— Did you come straight here from work? — she once asked.
— Yes. We had dinner with Lyoshka; he’s doing homework, and I’m here for half an hour.
— Doesn’t he get jealous?
— No. He loves you. Says, “Grandma Zina is cool,” and tells me your stories are more interesting than school books.
She smiled silently. But I saw her eyes glisten.
One day I came to her place, and the apartment was transformed. Flowers on the windowsill, a blanket on the sofa, windows shining.
— Grandma Zin, did you start cleaning?
— Yeah. You gave me a life. So I cleaned — inside and out.
I laughed.
— You’re something else.
— I just thought, if you come — it means I matter. So I should keep up.
— No need, — I replied. — I like you any way. With a smile, with sadness, with moods. Without masks.
She suddenly fell silent, then whispered almost:
— I wait for you. Every day.
For a moment, I was at a loss.
— Really?
— Really. I wake up in the morning, look at the clock — thinking, Dasha is already at work. Then maybe she’s on her way home. And I sit wondering what to make for her. Though you usually bring it. But still, I wait.
I went to her and hugged her.
— I won’t let you down.
— I know.
Winter came unexpectedly. Frost, snow, then mud, puddles, slippery sidewalks. Grandma Zina started going out less — her knee was hurting again. I brought her a thermos of soup, warm socks, and once even dragged an old but working heater.
— You’ve spoiled me completely, — she grumbled, hiding a pleased smile.
— Of course! I have such a grandma — a star! She deserves warmth and comfort.
She chuckled but now more often called me “my dear daughter.”
— Grandma Zin, did you have children?
— I had one. Sasha. He left for Germany about ten years ago. Promised to come back, but then just found another life there. A wife, children. I understood — I’m his past now.
— Does he call?
— Once a year, maybe twice. For New Year or birthday. Sometimes he forgets. I don’t get upset. I just miss him.
— I’m here, — I reminded her.
— That’s what I say — now I have you.
One evening Lyoshka came home from school and said:
— Mom, you know Grandma Zina remembered Dad? She said I’m just like him. And told how he once helped her carry bags from the market.
— Seriously?
— Yes. Though that was about ten years ago. Imagine?
I was surprised.
— Did you go to her yourself?
— Of course! She asked me to help move a box. And we agreed to play dominoes on the weekend.
I just shook my head. So it goes — grandson and grandma. Not related by blood but truly family.
Then she got a fever.
— Nothing serious, — she waved it off. — Probably a cold.
— No way. We’ll go to the doctor. I’m taking a day off.
— Dasha, what are you doing! You have work, a child…
— And I have you, too. And it’s not instead of, but together.
She gave in. We did tests, ultrasounds. Diagnosis — early-stage pneumonia. The doctor said: lucky you came in time.
I kept her at my place. Lyoshka gave up his room, sleeping on the sofa with me.
— Mom, she’s like a real grandma. Can she live with us sometimes?
— We’ll see, honey. The main thing is she gets better.
— I’ll bring her tea in bed tomorrow!
And he really did.
A week later Grandma Zina was already walking around the apartment, wrapped in a scarf, baking her famous pancakes.
— So, I’m needed by you?
— Very much.
— And I by you.
— Yes.
We looked at each other and understood everything.
In March she bought a knitting kit and knitted me a scarf — gray with white stripes, neat and warm.
— Not festive, but practical. Like me, — she smiled.
I cried. Because it wasn’t just a scarf — it was care, warmth, family.
— Thank you, Grandma Zin.
— Come on now. We’re a team now.
More than half a year has passed since the day she sat on that bench whispering she was nobody’s need. Now she has a whole schedule: Monday — I come with pies, Wednesday — Lyoshka reads her fairy tales, Saturday — she bakes cheese pancakes and invites us for tea.
Once she said:
— Dasha, you know… I didn’t ask you then. But you came. Just like that.
I nodded:
— Sometimes just like that turns out to be the most important.
— And I waited. Every day.
— Me too. I just didn’t know it.
She squeezed my hand.
— Thank you. For everything.
— And thank you — for letting me in.
And we sat together. Two women from different times, different blood, but one family. Because kinship isn’t by birth. It’s by choice. By the heart. By what remains when words end but people stay.