Tamara Ivanovna walked slowly through the brightly lit aisles of the massive supermarket, her eyes scanning shelves filled with colorful packages. She came here almost every day, not for groceries — she didn’t have a large family to feed — but for company. The store had become her refuge, a place where she could escape the silence of her apartment and the ache of solitude.

In warmer months, she found comfort on the bench outside, chatting with neighbors. But winter offered no such solace. So she wandered the supermarket, letting the hum of life around her fill the void.

There were people here. The aroma of fresh coffee lingered in the air. Soft music played overhead. And the packaging — bright, cheerful, almost toy-like — lifted her spirits, if only for a moment.

She picked up a small jar of strawberry yogurt, squinting to read the label. Then she gently returned it to the shelf. Such treats weren’t in her budget, but looking didn’t cost a thing.

As she wandered, memories surfaced — long lines at counters, stern saleswomen guarding scarce goods like treasure. She remembered the thick gray paper bags and the thrill of bringing home something special for her daughter.

Irina. Her heart clenched.

She paused by the freezer, leaning heavily on its edge. In her mind, she saw Irina’s laughing face — red curls, gray eyes, freckles, dimples. So full of life.

Irina had been her joy. Smart, spirited. But at twenty, she made a choice Tamara couldn’t understand — to become a surrogate mother. Tamara had warned her, pleaded with her. But Irina had smiled and stroked her growing belly.

“I already think of it not as a child,” she’d said, “but as good money.”

Tamara had wept. How could anyone give away a child they’d carried for nine months?

The labor was difficult. Irina didn’t survive. The baby girl was handed over to the clients immediately. Tamara wasn’t even acknowledged. No payment. No recognition. Just grief.

She buried her daughter. And then — silence. No family. No one left. She sank into herself, into a quiet that felt safer than the world outside.

Now, she made her way to the bread section. She needed to buy something — to prove she wasn’t just loitering. She counted her coins, handed them to the cashier, and tucked the rest away.

She’d first noticed the young beggar outside the supermarket nearly a month ago. What caught her attention? Maybe the girl’s youth, or the way she cradled the baby so protectively. Maybe it was the stillness in her eyes — a kind of quiet despair.

Tamara dropped a few coins into the jar and said gently, “My dear, aren’t you ashamed? You’re young. You could work.”

The girl didn’t flinch. “Thanks for the coins, but move along. I need to collect more, or there’ll be trouble.”

Tamara frowned and walked away, her heart heavy. She wanted to help. But how?

That night, she couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. Her voice, her eyes — they felt familiar. But why?

Back home, she made tea and nibbled on Borodinsky bread with a sliver of sausage. She stared out the window — and froze.

Two rough-looking men were shoving the girl into a car.

Tamara panicked. She reached for the phone, then hesitated. What if calling made things worse?

She watched until the street was empty. Then she waited for morning.

That night, she dreamed of Irina standing outside the supermarket, holding a child. The girl was blue with cold. Tamara hugged her tight, trying to warm her.

“I’m not cold, Mama,” Irina said.

Tamara pulled back the blanket — and saw a doll with a pendant around its neck.

She woke with a start. It was already nine. She rushed to the window.

The girl was back. Same spot. Same posture.

Tamara crossed herself. “Thank God.”

It was New Year’s Eve. The frost was biting. The girl had been outside for hours.

Tamara packed sandwiches, poured tea into a thermos, and bundled up.

When she approached, the girl flinched and covered a bruise with her scarf.

“Don’t worry,” Tamara said, handing her the food. “I don’t want you to go hungry.”

The girl ate quickly, greedily, barely chewing. She glanced at the baby, then swallowed the last bite and said, “This will keep us going till seven. Then they’ll come for us.”

Tamara nodded and walked away, her heart aching.

Later, she returned with borscht in a jar and slipped coins into the girl’s pocket. She winked and went inside.

She bought sausage and pickles for her modest New Year’s salad. When she left, the girl was gone. The jar was gone too.

“She must be eating somewhere,” Tamara thought, and smiled.

At home, she prepared the table. Maybe a neighbor would visit.

At ten, she looked out again. The girl was back — crying on the bench.

Tamara couldn’t bear it. She threw on a shawl and ran outside in her slippers.

“I’ve got nowhere else to go,” the girl whispered.

Then, with trembling hands, she thrust the baby into Tamara’s arms.

“Please take care of him,” she said, and began to walk away.

Tamara’s heart raced. She chased after her, caught her, and said firmly, “Come with me.”

Back in the apartment, Tamara unwrapped the baby near the heater.

“What’s your name?” she asked — then froze.

Among the baby’s clothes was a pendant. A little bear.

The girl saw her gaze and said, “It’s all I have left from my mother.”

Tamara sat down, stunned. She had given that pendant to Irina on her sixteenth birthday. She’d sold a brooch to buy the chain. It was unmistakable.

The girl asked to shower. Tamara nodded, then sipped valerian drops to calm herself.

She had taken in her granddaughter. There was no doubt.

When the girl returned, Tamara casually said, “Alina.”

The girl looked up. “How do you know?”

“Must’ve heard it somewhere,” Tamara replied.

Alina smiled and began to eat.

Tamara watched her closely, searching for familiar features.

“Well then, Alinochka, what happened to you?”

Alina spoke quickly, as if releasing years of pain.

She’d lived with her parents until age five. Then — divorce. Her mother took her to an orphanage and signed a waiver.

She didn’t understand why.

She spent twelve years there. Then — adulthood. A tiny apartment, already claimed by someone else. A boyfriend who vanished when she got pregnant. A life of begging, controlled by a man named Igor “Gray.”

He ran the homeless. Alina was “valuable” — young, with a baby. But she didn’t know how to beg. The pressure increased. The baby cried too much. And today, they left her behind.

“I don’t know how we would’ve made it through the night,” she said, yawning.

Tamara led her to bed, settled the baby nearby, and sat at the table.

She listened to the president’s speech, sipped sweet liqueur, and smiled.

She wouldn’t let them leave tomorrow. Or ever.

She would help Alina get on her feet. Raise her son. And one day, she’d tell them who she really was.

For now, they needed rest. Safety. Love.

Tamara looked out the window at the falling snow.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered. “For unexpected happiness. Farewell, loneliness. I have a family again.”

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