()Grandma took in a young guy who had nowhere to crash. But in the middle of the night, she caught him sneaking toward her bed and FROZE when she saw what he started doing…

The priest had performed their funeral service and visited her afterward, offering support and inviting her to come to church to pray. He saw how deeply this woman was grieving the loss of her entire family. She had always been a frequent visitor to the church, often bringing her husband on holidays.

Sometimes she came with her son, too. The priest remembered her well. He felt great pity for this kind woman, who had aged into a gray-haired widow in an instant.

It was heartbreaking to see one of his parishioners’ lives shattered because of a drunk driver who had veered into oncoming traffic. The poor woman still couldn’t recover from the trauma. It was good that she came to pray.

It was better for her to cry here in the church than alone in her empty apartment. Here, people could help, support, console, and pray with her. At home, everything only deepened her sense of loneliness and devastating loss.

Every item in the house reminded her of the loved ones who were gone. In that armchair, her husband always watched his favorite crime drama in the evenings. Over there, on the couch, her son would rest after his shift. He still lived with his parents, though he had been planning to start his own life.

He had a girlfriend and was preparing to propose. He had planned to move out after the wedding and live independently. He had even started looking for a place to live, but he never had the chance.

Real estate agents still called her, offering great deals on affordable apartments for her son, and she would sob into the phone, explaining that her son was gone, unable to bear the standard condolences from strangers. She would pull herself together soon and head home. Today, she cried much less than she had even a couple of days ago.

The atmosphere of the evening church truly calmed her. The soft crackling of candles by the icons. Especially when the other parishioners left, and she remained alone in the silence, with her prayers, with God.

It was strange how peaceful it felt to be alone here when no one else was around. But at home, that same loneliness and silence was killing her. She kept imagining her husband emerging from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel, asking about pickles or marinated mushrooms.

He loved all kinds of pickled foods—sauerkraut, spicy Korean carrots, eggplants, pickled zucchini, salted tomatoes, and crisp dill pickles. Margaret rarely ate them herself but prepared plenty for her husband. The garage basement was filled with jars of preserves, and every summer, they had to restock it.

She had collected so many recipes, so many treats for her beloved husband. The pickled plums alone were something special, and for the soaked apples, her husband had even found a real wooden barrel. He and their son never sat down to eat without a little appetizer. They rarely drank alcohol, only a bit on major holidays, but they always enjoyed some marinated mushrooms before dinner to whet their appetite.

And now, who was it all for? Who would eat her preserves? Who would she make pickle soup for, or stuff dumplings for? Who would she care for? What was the point of living? Margaret was utterly lost in this horrific loneliness and sense of being unneeded. She couldn’t fathom how to go on. She simply lived through each day, trying not to break down again.

Maybe she needed to keep her hands busy, but her home was always tidy, everything clean and in order. She did routine cleaning on autopilot, without thinking or being distracted. There wasn’t much to clean anyway—just a small, standard two-bedroom apartment.

In the small bedroom, there was only a wardrobe, a vanity, and a large double bed, now so empty without her husband. In the living room, a round dining table stood in the center, flanked by two armchairs where she and her husband sat in the evenings watching TV, a sideboard, and her son’s couch. In the corner, a small closet held his clothes, and bookshelves lined the wall. They always ate here, as the kitchen was tiny, and the whole family couldn’t fit around its small table.

An ordinary apartment in a concrete building, nothing fancy, with everything they needed. But it turned out the most essential thing in the apartment was the people. Their familiar faces, their cheerful banter, discussions about the latest news, and plans for the weekend…