From life. “I gave my house to my daughter, and now I feel like an intruder”

When my husband died, the house seemed empty and too big.

The house in which I spent most of my life has always been my pride. In every corner, in every floorboard, I felt the weight of the work my husband and I put into creating something we would call our place on earth. This is where we raised our children, celebrated their first successes, experienced difficult moments, and rejoiced in what we had managed to build together.

When my husband died, the house seemed empty and too big. Our daughter, Kasia, suggested that I give her the property. “Mom, why do you need such a big house? You'll move in with us or stay here, and I'll take care of everything,” she said. She convinced me. She was my only daughter, I trusted her completely.

I gave her the house in a deed of gift, thinking it was the best decision. Kasia promised that I would always be welcome here, that it would still be my home. But now, after years, with each passing day I feel like I'm just an unwanted guest here.

First, small changes began. Kasia and her husband decided to renovate the kitchen. I understand, the young generation, new needs. But during the renovation, my favorite wooden furniture, which my husband had made himself, disappeared. „Mom, it was old and impractical. You deserve something new,” I heard. But this new thing had no soul, it was alien, as if this house had ceased to be m&j.

Then came the bigger changes. My daughter and her husband began to decorate the rooms according to their preferences. My keepsakes, family photos, trinkets that reminded me of the times we spent together were put away in boxes and moved to the attic. “Mom, we'll make room for the children here, because they need space too,” Kasia explained. With each passing day I felt like I was disappearing from this house, like my past was being replaced by something new, something that had no place for me.

What hurt me the most were the little comments that were made more and more often. “Mom, maybe you better not cook, because you'll burn something again.” “Mom, don't go into the living room, because the kids are having classes there.” “Mom, please don't comment on our decisions, it's our home now.”

Our home. These words sound like a sentence. In a place that for years was my refuge, now I feel like an intruder who has to ask permission to take a cup from the cupboard. Once this house was bustling with the life of my family, now it is bustling with the life of Kasia and her children, and I have become invisible.

Today I sit in my room – the only one left for me – and look at old photos. In them there is me, my husband, our children. We smile, standing in front of this house, which at the time seemed to me the greatest achievement of my life. Now I wonder if it all made sense. I gave Kasia the house out of love, wanting her to have something lasting, something of her own. But in that love I forgot about myself, my place, my dignity.

Sometimes I dream of just leaving, leaving it all behind. But where would I go? This was supposed to be my home forever. And now I feel like I'll never be able to call it my own. Was it a good decision? Did I sacrifice too much out of love for my daughter?

Every day I try to find the answer to these questions. But with each passing day I know more and more that I will never feel at home here again.

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