1. The Boy by the River

The river was half-awake. Thin, glassy ice clung stubbornly to the shadowed banks, while in the sunlit parts, the water rippled freely, singing softly to itself as if it already smelled of spring. Ten-year-old Grisha trotted along the path, his school satchel bouncing against his back.

His mother, Lyudmila Sergeyevna, had warned him that morning not to dawdle. “Straight home, Grisha! The calf was born last night, and I’ve been on my feet since dawn. I need you to heat lunch, wash up, and start your homework. No wandering!”

He had nodded solemnly. He always did. But now, as the smell of wet earth and melting snow filled his nose, he could think only of the barn—of Zorya, their cow, and the tiny newborn calf wobbling on unsteady legs. The chores could wait; this, surely, could not.

Rounding the bend by the alder trees, Grisha noticed something strange on the bank—a heap of wet clothing, it seemed, and beside it, movement. As he came closer, he froze.

An elderly woman sat hunched on the ground, her gray hair plastered to her face, her coat soaked through. She was crying softly, shivering so violently her teeth chattered.

“Hello!” he called, dropping his bag and running closer. “What happened, Grandma? Did you fall in?”

The old woman looked up at him—her eyes red, frightened, and yet strangely dignified.
“Oh, my child,” she gasped. “I didn’t fall—I was pushed! Pushed into that icy water like I was a sack of garbage. And now… oh, I can’t even move. The cold’s gone into my bones.”

Grisha’s heart lurched.
“Wait here, Grandma! Don’t move! I’ll be right back!”

He spun on his heel and ran, legs pumping, the satchel flapping behind him, his breath coming out in white bursts.

2. The Call for Help

Lyudmila Sergeyevna had just come in from the barn. Her arms ached from wrestling with the stubborn Zorya, who had decided that no one—not even her kind mistress—would take milk meant for her calf. Lyuda had finally given up and gone to wash her hands, hoping to steal ten minutes of rest before starting supper.

The quiet hum of the household lulled her. From the open window came the soft sounds of the barn—Zorya’s lowing and the calf’s thin, eager bleats. Lyudmila smiled, her eyes closing for a moment.

Then the front door banged so hard the whole frame rattled.

“Grisha! What in the world—”

“Mom! Someone’s dying by the river!”

Her rest vanished.
“What? Who?”

“An old lady, wet through. She said somebody pushed her in. She’s freezing—can’t walk. I’m getting something warm!”

Lyudmila was already moving. “Wait—don’t just grab anything! Take your father’s sheepskin, and that scarf from the top shelf. And the milk cart—bring that too. It’ll be easier to carry her.”

Within minutes, they were racing back toward the river, the cart’s iron wheels bumping and squealing against the stones.

The old woman was lying on her side now, her lips blue, her eyes half-closed. Lyudmila knelt beside her, felt the chill of her skin even through her own gloves.

“Easy now, Grandma. You’re safe. We’ll get you home.”

Together, mother and son lifted her onto the sheepskin, tucked the coat around her, and began pushing the cart toward the village.

3. The Stranger with No Name

Once home, Lyudmila filled the old bathtub with steaming water, and they helped the woman undress, her soaked garments heavy as lead. Grisha stood at the door, wide-eyed, watching as the stranger’s skin went from pale gray to pink again.

Afterward, wrapped in a thick blanket and holding a cup of hot tea, the old woman finally began to speak.

“My name is Ksenia Petrovna Rudkovskaya,” she said, her voice trembling. “But everyone used to call me Baba Asya. Oh, my dears, I can’t thank you enough. May God reward you for your kindness—both of you. If it weren’t for this boy, I’d be lying under the river ice by now.”

Lyudmila shook her head modestly. “Anyone would have helped.”

But the old woman clutched her hand. “No, my dear, not anyone. Someone pushed me in that river, and others passed me by. Only your boy stopped.”

Lyudmila felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Who would do such a thing?”

Baba Asya’s gaze fell to the steaming cup. “My own daughter-in-law.”

And then the story came pouring out.

4. The Tale of Betrayal

She had lived with her elder son, Vitalik, a successful man with a fine house in the city. When his first wife, Lenochka, was alive, all had been well. Lenochka was kind, attentive—a doctor by profession and by heart. She’d measured out Baba Asya’s pills herself, made sure she ate, laughed, talked to her like a mother to a child.

But after Lenochka died, everything changed.

Six months later, Vitalik brought home a new wife—young, beautiful, and sharp as a thorn. Mila, a former model. From the very first day, she made her dislike clear.

“Where are you going, Mother?” she would sneer. “You track dust through the house.”

If Baba Asya tried to help, Mila accused her of meddling. If she stayed in her room, Mila said she was sulking. Her medicine smelled “old.” Her perfume—“funeral-like.”

Once, while Vitalik was away at a conference, Mila went further. She locked the old woman in her room, shouting that she didn’t want her “wandering around.”

Finally, desperate, Baba Asya had begged to be taken to her younger son in the village. Mila’s smile had been thin as wire.
“Fine,” she’d said. “Pack your things.”

But instead of driving her to Lozovaya, she stopped at a bridge.
“There you are. The village is across the river.”

And before the old woman could understand, Mila gave her a single, hard shove.

“I went under,” Baba Asya whispered. “The water was like knives. Somehow I crawled out. I don’t remember how.”

Lyudmila’s heart clenched. “We’ll go to the police,” she said at once.

But Baba Asya only shook her head.
“No. Let God deal with her. My task now is to find warmth—and to live.”

5. The Village Rescues Its Own

When she heard that Lozovaya, the next village over, was her destination, Lyudmila’s eyes widened.
“You’re mother to Viktor Rudkovsky? The one who owns the orchards?”

“That’s my younger boy,” Baba Asya nodded. “Though he’s no longer a boy. He was always the quiet one.”

Lyudmila laughed softly. “Everyone here knows him. A good man.”

“Then I’ll stay only until I’m strong enough to walk there,” the old woman insisted.

“Nonsense,” said Lyuda. “You’ll stay until Saturday. You’ll eat well, rest, and we’ll take you ourselves.”

And so she did.

By the next morning, warmth had returned to her cheeks. She helped Grisha with his homework, her teacher’s instinct shining through. They discovered that nearly half the staff in Rubtsy had once been her pupils.

“Imagine!” Grisha exclaimed. “You taught everyone!”

“Not everyone,” she smiled. “But enough to fill my heart.”

6. The Celebration

By Saturday, Baba Asya was transformed—hair brushed, dress pressed, her eyes bright again. Lyudmila almost didn’t recognize her.

“Just look at you!” she said.

The old woman chuckled. “If only my gray hair didn’t betray me.”

That day was the school’s tenth anniversary, and half the village had gathered in the yard. Music blared, children ran between rows of benches, and speeches began.

When a shiny jeep rolled up and a man in a dark suit stepped out, everyone applauded—Viktor Rudkovsky had arrived. He congratulated the teachers and handed out flowers. Then the director’s voice rang out:

“Today we also welcome the first teacher of many of us here—our beloved Ksenia Petrovna Rudkovskaya!”

The crowd turned. Baba Asya froze. Lyudmila nudged her gently forward.

“Go on,” she whispered.

The applause swelled. Viktor’s eyes widened as she reached the stage, limping slightly. A moment later, he was at her side, bouquet in hand, his voice breaking.

“Mother?”

She smiled through tears. “Yes, Vitenka. Your old mother.”

7. A New Beginning

The next morning, Viktor came to Lyudmila’s house with a bouquet of flowers.
“Lyudochka,” he said warmly, “you saved her life. Please—dinner tonight, at seven. You and Grisha.”

Lyudmila hesitated. “I’ve just had a calf born; I can’t leave.”

“Then we’ll dine another day. But tell me—why are you still milking by hand? That’s hard work.”

She laughed. “We’ve only one cow. A machine would be nonsense.”

By evening, a brand-new milking machine stood in her yard. Viktor helped install it himself. And from that day on, he began visiting often. Sometimes he brought fruit; sometimes toys for Grisha. Always, he came with a quiet kindness that felt… different.

One evening, over tea, he said softly:
“I’ve grown very fond of you, Lyudochka. You’ve brought warmth back to our house.”

She met his gaze steadily. “I feel the same, Viktor. Maybe it was meant to be.”

By the end of June, they were married.

8. Justice and Peace

A week later, word came that Vitalik’s young wife had been in a terrible accident—her car had gone off the bridge into the same river. She survived but was paralyzed from the waist down.

When his mother asked if he had worried about her sudden disappearance, Vitalik had only shrugged.
“Mila said you went to Vitya’s.”

Karma, perhaps, had simply done its work.

9. Epilogue

Summer deepened. Grisha pedaled through the lanes on his new bicycle, running errands, fetching medicine for Baba Asya, and feeling—as only a boy can feel—that life was large and bright and full of purpose.

In Lozovaya, the orchards swayed in the warm wind, bees hummed, and in the Rudkovsky house laughter rang daily—children’s laughter, the music of a new family born from a single act of kindness beside a cold river.

And every time Lyudmila watched Grisha race past the gate, she thought of that day—the icy water, the trembling hands—and whispered a small prayer of thanks.

Because sometimes fate pushes us not into the river, but toward our destiny.