One moment, one moment, and suddenly he was gone.
My husband, Jan, has always been the rock of our family. He was a warm, calm man, he could defuse any conflict and always found time for me and the children. In 40 years of marriage, we built a home together, not only literally, but above all spiritually – full of love, understanding and support. I never thought that after he left, it would all fall to pieces.
Jan died unexpectedly. Heart attack. One moment, one instant, and suddenly he was gone. Silence filled the house. I felt like I was in a fog – each day was just another step into the void. I had hoped that at this difficult moment the children would stand by me, help me through the mourning, that we would remember their father together. But reality turned out to be completely different.
The funeral had barely ended when the questions began. At first they were shy, gentle, as if they wanted to see how I would react.
– Mom, did Dad say anything about the plot outside the city? – asked his daughter, Aneta, as we sat in the kitchen. – You know, he always said it was a good place for a summer house.
– And what about the apartment in the city? – Marek, my older son, butted in. – Of course, it's an ideal investment. Someone should take it, to take care of it.
I listened to them and couldn't believe it. Just a few days ago they were saying goodbye to their father, and now their main concern was the estate he left behind. I tried to break off the conversation, change the subject, but they wouldn't give up.
– Mom, we have to settle this, – Aneta said emphatically. – Dad would have wanted this. We can't put it off.
From then on, every conversation with them was about the inheritance. The plot of land, the apartment, the savings – everything became the subject of their dispute. Aneta believed that she deserved more, because she had always been “closer to her parents”. Marek claimed that as the oldest, he had more right to decide. Their discussions, and then quarrels, became louder and more ruthless. And I? sat in the middle of it all, trying to understand how it was possible that my own children could be so heartlessly pragmatic.
What hurt the most was that none of them asked me how I felt. That no one hugged me, said: & bdquo;Mom, we'll get through this together.” Instead, I felt like a judge in their conflict, like an obstacle that had to be removed to resolve their property issues.
The last conversation was the last straw. Marek came to me with a proposal that was like a slap in the face.
– Mom, I think it would be best if you sold the house and moved to something smaller. Aneta and I will split the money. Your expenses will be lower and your life will be easier – he said, as if he was offering me the best solution in the world.
– Sell the house? The house my father and I spent our whole lives building? – I asked, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. – This is your solution?
– Mom, don't be sentimental. It's just a place – he threw.
It's just a place. The words echoed in my head. To them it may have been just a place, but to me it was a lifetime. Every room, every wall, every corner reminded me of Jan, of our love, of the family we tried to create. And now I see that family falling apart before my eyes.
Today I sit in this house that suddenly seems too big and too empty. The pictures on the walls remind me of better times, when the children were little and Jan was still alive. I wonder what I did wrong. Have my children really forgotten so easily what family means? Has the inheritance really become more important than love and support?
Maybe one day they will understand how much they have let me down. Maybe one day they will come and say: „I'm sorry, Mom, that we left you in this mourning.” But will I still have the strength to forgive them then?
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