I never thought that at 62 I would become something like a savior. And I certainly could not have imagined that this incident would change my life so much and fill it with new meaning.

That late September day was unusually warm and sunny. Autumn was already leaving its first leaves on the asphalt, smelling of the past summer and approaching cold. I was walking home from the store — a heavy bag was rubbing my hand, and my mood was gray, like the autumn gloom. Ever since my husband left three years ago, all my walks had turned into an endless internal dialogue: “Another day lived…”

I counted the forty steps from the store to the bus stop almost automatically. Thirty-two… thirty-three… On the fortieth step something caught my eye. Near the stop stood a girl, very young, with a rounded belly, clutching the bench convulsively. Her face was twisted in pain, fear in her eyes. She was asking for help from people nearby, but they pretended she wasn’t there. Someone buried their face in a phone, someone looked away, someone just stepped aside.

“Please… I feel bad… Help me…” she whispered barely audibly.

I involuntarily slowed down. Inside, a voice said: “Just walk past, Sofya Ivanovna. It’s not your business. Maybe she’s on drugs or something else. You never know these days.”

But her eyes… There was so much fear and hope in them that I felt uneasy. And when I noticed how her hands trembled, carefully pressed to her belly, a picture of my Natasha flashed through my mind — my daughter who has long lived in Canada and rarely calls. She has her own family now, her own worries. And I have — an empty apartment, a cat, and memories.

“Wait!” I blurted out and turned back.

The girl looked up at me with eyes full of gratitude and helplessness. Such that it took my breath away.

“What happened, girl?” I asked, coming closer.

“My head is spinning… everything’s going dark…” she said with difficulty. “I’m going to the women’s clinic for papers for benefits… And then… everything hit me…”

I carefully helped her sit on the bench, placed my palm on her forehead — her skin was cold and sweaty. People around still pretended nothing was happening.

“Which clinic were you going to?” I asked, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing sweat from her forehead.

“Zvezdnaya, the third consultation… If I rest a bit, maybe I can manage on my own…”

“No ‘on your own’,” I interrupted firmly. “We’re calling a taxi now.”

With hands trembling slightly from excitement, I dialed a familiar service number — I remembered it from when I used to take my husband for treatment.

“A car will be here in five minutes,” I said, sitting next to her and handing Alena a bottle of water. “Drink in small sips. What’s your name?”

“Alena,” she answered gratefully accepting the water. “Thank you… Everyone turned away… As if I didn’t exist.”

“Don’t worry, Alyonushka,” I didn’t even notice how I called her tenderly. “Sometimes people ignore not out of cruelty, but helplessness. They just don’t know what to do — so they hide behind indifference.”

She smiled slightly, and I noticed cute dimples on her cheeks.

“Are your feet swollen?” I asked, looking at her swollen ankles.

Alena nodded.

“Have you been alone with the baby long?”

Tears filled her eyes.

“Four months… He left when he found out it would be a girl. He wanted a son. Said he didn’t marry to raise girls.”

I wanted to find that man and give him a good lesson about what a real man is. But instead, I just squeezed her hand tighter.

“His loss,” I said firmly. “Girls are special. They love more sincerely, more deeply. And they bond with their fathers more than boys do.”

After a few minutes, the taxi arrived. A young man with kind eyes was driving. He helped us get comfortably into the back seat.

“To the third clinic on Zvezdnaya,” I said, gently supporting Alena.

“Please don’t take a detour!” I added decisively, noticing the driver looked at us skeptically. “A pregnant woman’s condition is worsening.”

The guy immediately became serious:

“No problem! I’ll drive carefully and quickly!”

In the car, Alena somewhat recovered. She leaned against the window, closed her eyes.

“Aren’t you in a hurry? Am I holding you up?” she asked guiltily.

“My dear, I have nowhere to rush. Except the cat is waiting at home — but he can wait. By the way, my name is Sofya Ivanovna. Or just Aunt Sonya if that’s easier for you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Sonya,” Alena’s voice trembled. “I don’t know what I would do without you…”

“Nonsense,” I waved it off. “Someone would have helped anyway.”

But we both knew: no one stopped. Only me.

When we arrived at the clinic, the girl’s condition had noticeably worsened. I practically carried her to the entrance and shouted loudly:

“Pregnant woman losing consciousness! Need help!”

This time the reaction was immediate. Nurses caught Alena, sat her in a stretcher and disappeared behind the office door. I stayed in the corridor, mechanically fiddling with my bag handle. And although I was just a passerby, for some reason I couldn’t leave. It seemed that some invisible connection had formed between us — important and yet unspoken.

Half an hour later, a woman in a white coat came out — strict, with smart eyes and a slight tiredness at the corners of her face.

“Are you a relative?” she asked.

“No, I just helped get her here. What’s wrong with her?”

The doctor sighed:

“Severe toxicosis and increased uterine tone. Good thing you brought her in time. The risk of premature labor was real. We’re stabilizing her now.”

“Can I see her?” I asked unexpectedly.

The doctor looked carefully, as if trying to understand why I needed this.

“She asked for you. Room three. But only briefly — she needs rest.”

Alena lay on the bed, pale, eyes closed. The IV drip was dripping steadily, as if counting time. Hearing me, she opened her eyes and weakly smiled.

“You stayed,” she whispered.

“How could I leave?” I was surprised. “Didn’t even think about it.”

“Thank you…” she continued. “The doctor said you saved us. Premature labor could have started…”

I sat down next to her, holding her hand:

“Now everything will be fine. I promise.”

“I was so scared… standing there, asking for help, and everyone looks past… as if I didn’t exist, as if me and the baby are invisible.”

I gently stroked her hand:

“Sometimes people just don’t know how to help. They’re afraid to make a mistake, to do something wrong. That’s no excuse, of course…”

“But you weren’t afraid,” she interrupted.

“I just saw my daughter in you,” I answered honestly. “She’s far away now, in Canada. And you have the same green eyes, with golden sparks…”

Silence hung. Outside, twilight was falling, somewhere in the distance cars honked, and in the room there was the smell of medicine and some strange, almost springlike hope.

“Do you have grandchildren?” Alena suddenly asked.

“No,” I shook my head. “Natashka is building her career. She says there’s still time. Maybe she’s right…”

“And I thought we would be a family. Me, him, and our girl. Silly, right?”

“Not silly at all, dear,” I gently fixed a stray lock of hair. “It’s just not everyone is meant to be real men. And your child deserves the very best.”

The doctor peeked in:

“Visiting time is over. Alena will stay overnight under observation.”

I stood up, but the girl suddenly squeezed my hand tightly:

“Will you come tomorrow? Please…”

Her look was so full of hope that I couldn’t refuse.

“Of course, I will come. Now tell me — who should I call? Parents? A friend?”

She looked away:

“No one… Parents are in Petrozavodsk. I came here to study, then found work. And friends… after pregnancy, they vanished like water into sand.”

And then I made a decision that, it seems, had been ripening inside me from the very beginning:

“Write down my number. Call whenever you need — day or night.”

In the morning I woke up earlier than usual. Fed the cat, tidied up, went to the market. Bought fresh fruit, homemade cottage cheese, and honey — everything useful for a pregnant woman. Then I stopped by a children’s clothing store and picked out a small romper — yellow, with daisies. The saleswoman smiled:

“Are you buying for your granddaughter?”

I hesitated but replied:

“For a very important person.”

I arrived at the clinic around eleven. Alena was already sitting on the bed, filling out documents. Seeing me, she blossomed:

“You came!”

“I promised, so I’m here,” I put the bags on the nightstand. “How do you feel?”

“Much better! The doctor allowed me to go home, but I must stay in bed for a couple of days.”

“And who will look after you?” I asked, sitting next to her.

“I’ll manage somehow myself,” she shrugged.

“No way,” I declared firmly. “You’re coming to me. I have a three-room apartment — plenty of space. You’ll lie down and not move.”

She looked at me puzzled:

“But we barely know each other… Why do you want this?”

I didn’t know the answer myself. Why does a woman my age take on the care of a stranger she met just a day ago? But inside was a clear feeling — it had to be this way. Something more than coincidence.

“You know, Alyonushka,” I said slowly, “sometimes fate brings people together for a reason. I’m not very religious, but yesterday, seeing you at the stop, I felt… how to say… an inner push. Like someone whispered: ‘Go and help.’ And also…” I hesitated a little, “my Natasha calls once a month for a couple of minutes. Is that life for an old woman?”

“You’re not an old woman!” Alena objected passionately.

“Doesn’t matter how I see myself,” I answered. “What matters is that we can be needed by each other. You’re too vulnerable now, excitement is bad for you. And I… I just miss being needed by someone. So don’t argue!”

And she didn’t argue.

Two months flew by unnoticed. At first Alena stayed just the “couple of days,” and then she ended up living here. We quickly found common ground. She helped around the house as much as her condition allowed, I took care of food and monitored her routine. In the evenings we drank herbal tea, I told stories from my youth, and she shared dreams about the future.

Once, stroking her belly, she thoughtfully said:

“I used to think the worst thing was to be alone with a child. Now I realize: the worst is when no one sees you. When you’re invisible to everyone.”

I put down my knitting needles:

“Behind every indifference, there is someone who will reach out a hand. Remember that. And pass it on to your girl.”

Alena shifted slightly:

“Sofya Ivanovna… I have an important question. Will you agree to be my baby’s godmother?”

I caught my breath. Never, even in my wildest dreams, did I think I’d hear such words.

“Are you sure?” I managed to say.

“More than sure,” she smiled. “You saved us that day. And also… I want my daughter to have someone who will teach her to notice those who need help. Those who others ignore.”

Tears filled my eyes by themselves.

“Thank you, Alyonushka… It’s a great honor…”

I hadn’t finished speaking when she suddenly grabbed her belly:

“I think… it’s starting!”

And it started. Ambulance, packing, hospital corridors, maternity ward. I rushed back and forth, trying to be helpful but mostly getting in the way of doctors.

“Mom, wait in the corridor,” the nurse said strictly, leading me out of the room. “We’ll call you when needed.”

For six hours I sat on a cold chair, listening to the sounds behind the door. Prayed — although I never really believed in prayers. Asked all saints for everything to go well.

When the door finally opened and the tired doctor said:

“Congratulations, you have a healthy granddaughter weighing three six hundred!”

I didn’t even correct him.

Now Alena and little Sofia — yes, that’s the name she gave her daughter — live with me. We often walk together in the park, neighbors come up and admire:

“What a lovely granddaughter you have, Sofya Ivanovna!”

And I smile and think: sometimes you just have to stop. Stop when you see someone else’s trouble. Approach. Look in the eyes. Reach out a hand. Because behind this step can lie a new life. A new family. A new meaning.

And every time I meet a pregnant woman on the street, I remember that September bus stop, the people who pretended Alena didn’t exist. I’m not angry at them — they just didn’t know what happiness passed them by.

But now I know.
And I will never pass by someone who needs help again.
Even if the whole world pretends that person doesn’t exist.