Real-life. “I Signed My House Over to My Daughter”: Now She Says It's Not My Place Anymore

It wasn’t my home anymore.

I sat at the kitchen table, listening to the familiar sounds of the house that had been my place on earth my whole life. The wooden floor creaked quietly beneath my feet, the clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, and outside the window I could hear the rustle of the trees my husband and I had planted years ago.

But this wasn’t my home anymore.

Not according to my daughter.

— Mom, we need to talk,— Marta said one afternoon, sitting across from me.

I smiled warmly.

— Of course, honey. What happened?

Her gaze was cold, alien.

— It's about the house.

My heart started beating faster.

— What about him?

— Well, because… Piotr and I thought that since everything was on me… maybe you should move somewhere else.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

— Somewhere else?

— Maybe to an apartment? Small, more comfortable…

I stared at her in silence, unable to believe what I was hearing.

— This is my home, Marta. Your father and I spent our entire lives here. I raised you here.

She sighed, as if she was dealing with a stubborn child.

— I know, Mom. But it's not practical anymore. The house is big, it needs renovation, and I…

She stopped, but I already knew.

— And you want to sell it— I finished for her.

She didn't deny it.

A year earlier I had signed the house over to her. It seemed like the best solution – Marta was my only daughter, she always said she wanted to live here, that it was her family nest.

— Don't worry, Mom, nothing's going to change! — she said when I was signing the papers.

And now…

Now everything has changed.

I tried to fight.

— Marta, you promised…

— Mom, don't make a scene— she cut it off dryly. — We just want to live our own way.

— But it's my home!

— No, Mom — she looked at me impatiently. — Not anymore.

She got up and went to the window.

— We gave you time to get used to the idea of ​​moving. But it's high time now.

I felt tears welling up in my eyes.

They gave me time?

This was my home. My refuge. Every corner had its own story, every piece of furniture held memories.

And now my own daughter was treating me like an unwanted guest.

A week later she started bringing me offers on apartments.

— Look, it's not far. We can help you pack.

— I don't want to pack.

— Mom, please…

She didn't want to hear my „no”.

She didn't want me here.

And so I sat in my living room, staring at the walls that knew my every secret.

Not my walls anymore.

I don't have a home anymore.

Because now I was just here intruder.

See what else we've written about in recent days: From life. “I raised children, and they left me”: Now they don't even have time for a phone call