Lidia

Lidiya Andreyevna was forty-eight years old. Once energetic and lively, with a firm gaze and a quiet but confident voice, she could now barely get out of bed without assistance. The illness came on suddenly—at first, mild weakness, then pain in her legs, and soon even simple movements began to cause shortness of breath and dizziness. Doctors said things weren't so bad, that recovery was possible, but time passed, and her strength continued to dwindle.

Her relatives, busy with their own affairs, decided to hire a helper—a young student—to help around the house, fetch medications, cook meals, and simply keep them company. When you first stepped through the door of her apartment, Lidiya Andreyevna greeted you with a wary gaze. She was sitting in a chair by the window, holding a book in her hands, a book she hadn't been able to read for a long time due to pain and fatigue.

You introduced yourself quietly, trying to sound respectful. Lydia Andreyevna nodded, but something like embarrassment flickered in her eyes. She smiled weakly, trying to hide her discomfort. The thought of the young woman seeing her weak and helpless haunted her. She felt as if, along with her illness, she had lost not only her health but also her dignity.

With these words, your strange coexistence began—day after day, step after step. At first, she wouldn't let you do anything without permission, strictly watching your every move, as if afraid of appearing weak. But then, over time, trust began to grow between you.

You noticed how Lidiya Andreyevna tried to comb her hair herself in the mornings so as not to look sloppy in front of you, how she tried to hide her pain so as not to evoke pity. Her pride sometimes prevented you from helping, but it was precisely this that made her special—a woman you couldn't simply pity.