At the supermarket, I noticed an elderly woman: I decided to buy her groceries and take her home, but what I saw in her apartment was horrifying

At the supermarket, I noticed an elderly woman: I decided to buy her groceries and take her home, but what I saw in her apartment was horrifying 

Today, at the supermarket, an elderly woman caught my attention. Her eyes darted across the price tags, and her trembling fingers carefully sorted through the cheapest canned goods. It was only two degrees outside, and she stood by the shelves in rubber slippers and thin socks.

I approached and helped her choose a few things – though there really wasn’t much to choose from. But then I just couldn’t let her go on her own. I offered to walk through the store with her. She seemed confused at first, then scared, but finally agreed.

I started putting basic items into her basket – pasta, eggs, vegetables, oil. She kept saying:

— “Oh no, please don’t… they won’t let me through at the checkout, they know I have no money…”

When she realized I was serious and really going to pay for everything she needed, her eyes softened. She took some butter… and rice. That was it. I asked what she had at home. Her answer was short:

— “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

I added a chocolate bar. And at that moment I saw something I’ll never forget: pure, childlike joy in her eyes. My little sister has the same expression when I let her take an extra piece of candy.

— “I love chocolate…” she whispered. “But I haven’t tasted it in about five years.”

As we approached the checkout, she stopped several times: wanting to put items back, asking me:

— “Please tell the cashier you’re my nephew… otherwise they won’t let us through…”

She crossed herself, thanked me, apologized. It felt like she had been turned away before — maybe for being short ten rubles.

I drove her home. She lived in a large brick building at the corner of Leninsky Prospekt and Udaltzova Street. A high-rise, upscale entrance, with a concierge.

I was surprised — I had assumed she lived in an old Khrushchyovka on the outskirts. Turns out she was given this apartment after her previous home was demolished. Now, she pays nearly half of her pension on utilities alone.

Inside the apartment, it was cold. Cardboard lined the floor instead of rugs, and the kitchen had no fridge or stove. Everything had been taken after her son’s death — by her daughter-in-law and sister.

They don’t come anymore. They call maybe once every six months — just to check if she’s still alive. If she is, they hang up.

— “They’re waiting for me to die,” she said with the kind of calm that only comes from long, silent suffering.

The most awful part? Her neighbors see it all. They knew her son, they know she’s alone. They see her go out in slippers in the fall, dragging bags of expired food. And no one says a word.

Yet all I bought her cost just a little over 3,000 rubles. A grocery basket that will last her a month. Is there truly not a single person in that big, wealthy building who wanted to help?

I couldn’t just walk away.

I called a friend — he runs a small grocery business. I told him the story, and he immediately agreed to help. A monthly grocery package — at the very least.

I brought in a couple of other friends — they helped with medicine and repairs. A week later, I visited again. She greeted me like I was her own grandson.

I brought food, medicine, new warm shoes. I arranged for cleaning. Found a handyman to fix the stove. We installed a new electric kettle.

And you know what? The room filled with the scent of life. Hope returned to her eyes, and a smile appeared on her lips. Small, quiet — but real.

The elderly don’t ask for much. They don’t demand. They don’t complain. They simply wait. Sometimes — for help. Sometimes — for death.

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