The land my house stood on was all I had left of my parents.
I stand on the edge of my burnt-out plot of land, looking at the ruins that were my home just a few days ago. The place I built with love over the years now looks like a landscape after a battle. Black smoke still hangs over the ruins, and the smell of burning reminds me of the tragedy that destroyed everything I had. But the pain of losing my home is nothing compared to the grief I feel, knowing that my own family has abandoned me.
The land my home stood on was all I had left of my parents. A small piece of land on the outskirts of town, with a small garden and a modest house that I had been renovating myself for years. I had plans – I wanted to plant more trees, build a greenhouse, create a place where I could spend the rest of my life in peace.
But for my family, the land was more than that. Its value was rising because a new road was planned to be built nearby. My brother and sister were pushing to sell it to a developer who was offering big money for it.
– „Anka, think how much we could get out of this. You can buy yourself a better apartment in the city, and we'll split the rest,– my brother said during one of their many conversations.
„I don't want to sell it. This is my place, I call it home. The land I left behind. It's not just about the money,– I replied, believing they would understand.
But they didn't understand. For them, it was a waste of time and money. Each subsequent conversation ended with more and more tension. Eventually they stopped visiting me, and our contacts were limited to cold, reproachful phone calls.
A few days ago, everything changed. It was late at night when I was woken by a strange smell. I opened my eyes and saw flames dancing in the living room. The fire spread like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. I ran out of the house, nearly choking on the smoke, and watched my life turn to ash.
The firefighters arrived quickly, but it was too late. When the fire went out, all that was left was a pile of ashes. I lost everything – my house, my parents' keepsakes, my documents. Everything I had was gone.
The next day I called my brother, hoping for support.
– „Piotrek, my house burned down. I don't know what to do– I said with a trembling voice.
– „Anka, it's a tragedy, but you wanted it yourself. If you sold the land, you would have an apartment in the city and you wouldn't have to worry– he replied coldly.
– „Piotrek, how can you say that? It was a house!”
– „And what are you going to do now? You're counting on us to help you? You know what I think? It's not our problem anymore– he replied before hanging up.
His words were like a blow. That same day, my sister called, repeating almost the same arguments. Their only response to my tragedy was: „You should have sold the land”.
Now I'm here, alone, on this scorched earth, trying to understand where I went wrong. Should I have stepped down? Could selling the land really have prevented this tragedy? But deep down I know it wasn’t just about the money. This was my fight for something I held sacred – the home our parents built, the place that was supposed to be my sanctuary.
The family that was supposed to have my back turned away from me when I needed them the most. In their eyes I am guilty – guilty for holding on to values that meant nothing to them.
I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe I'll rebuild my house, maybe I'll sell the land and start over somewhere else. But I know one thing for sure – even if the ashes can be cleaned up, the wounds my family inflicted on me will stay with me forever.
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