It was an ordinary September afternoon, the sun unusually warm for this time of year. The scent of autumn mixed with the last whispers of summer, and I was walking home from the store, the weight of my shopping bag cutting into my fingers. My thoughts were heavy, and my mind wandered through the same dreary routine that had followed me ever since my husband left three years ago. Life had felt like a repetitive cycle — another day, another step towards loneliness.
I counted the steps to the bus stop, a habit to numb my thoughts. Thirty-two… thirty-three… On the forty-first step, something caught my eye. Near the stop, there was a young woman, clutching the bench and visibly in distress. She looked faint, her face twisted in pain, and she whispered faintly, “Please, help me… I feel so weak.” Her voice was fragile, barely audible over the sound of the passing traffic.
People passed by, pretending not to notice. Some buried themselves deeper in their phones, others averted their eyes, as though afraid to be inconvenienced. The woman’s desperation hung in the air, and yet, no one stopped.
A voice inside me urged me to walk on, to mind my own business. After all, who knew what kind of trouble she could be in? But something about her eyes — the mix of fear and hope — made me hesitate. A rush of protective instinct stirred in me, and before I realized it, I turned back.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently as I approached her.
Her face lifted toward me, her eyes wide with gratitude. “I… I don’t feel well… I need to get to the clinic…” she murmured, her voice shaking. “I have to get a certificate for my benefits.”
I could see how her hands trembled, pressed against her swollen belly. Her distress was palpable, and I felt a pang of empathy that connected me to her. I sat her down on the bench and put my hand on her forehead — her skin was clammy and cold.
“Which clinic are you headed to?” I asked, keeping my voice calm as I dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief.
“The one on Zvezdnaya, the third consultation…” she replied weakly.
“No, no more waiting. We’re calling a taxi,” I insisted, pulling out my phone. The number was still saved from when I used to take my husband for treatments.
Within minutes, a car arrived. I helped the young woman, Alena, into the taxi, and we were on our way. I noticed her discomfort, but I reassured her, “Don’t worry, Alena. You’re in good hands now.”
She looked at me, her eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you… I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
I smiled softly, squeezing her hand. “You don’t need to thank me. Sometimes people ignore others because they don’t know how to help. But I knew I had to stop for you.”
As we drove to the clinic, I learned more about Alena’s story. She was pregnant and alone, abandoned by her partner when he found out she was having a girl. He had wanted a son, and in his mind, daughters were not worth the trouble.
My heart ached for her. “He’s lost,” I said quietly. “Girls are special. They love more deeply, and they deserve the best.”
When we finally reached the clinic, Alena’s condition had worsened. I helped her out of the taxi, shouting for help as I guided her toward the entrance. People rushed to assist, and within moments, the clinic staff took over.
I stayed by her side until she was stable, my heart full of a warmth I hadn’t felt in years. That simple act of helping a stranger had given my life new meaning — a purpose I hadn’t realized I was missing.
As I walked back home later, I knew that this encounter would stay with me forever. Sometimes, life’s greatest changes come from the smallest, most unexpected moments. And in that moment, I found my reason to keep going.