It all started when a few months ago.
The house I live in is not an ordinary building. It's a place full of memories, love and history. Every corner is a hidden reminder of the life we created together – me, my husband, and our children. It was here that we celebrated birthdays, decorated the Christmas tree together, and spent long summer evenings in the garden. This house is my refuge, my sanctuary. I never thought that one day my own children would try to convince me to get rid of it.
It all started when we met for a family dinner a few months ago. My daughter, Kasia, started the topic with a small remark: “Mom, this house is really big. Don't you feel lonely here?”
I looked at her with a smile. „No, Kasia. This house is my whole world. I feel good here.”
„But maybe it would be better if you lived somewhere smaller, more comfortable?– my son, Marek, added.
Their words seemed caring at first. I thought they were worried about my health and comfort. But I quickly realized that there was more to their concern. „Mom, you should consider selling the house,– Kasia said. „You could split the money between us and move into something smaller yourself. That would make sense.”
I felt my heart start to beat faster. “Sell the house?” – I repeated in disbelief.
“Yes, Mom,” Marek interjected. “This house is too big for one person. And this money could help us all. You know, Ania and I want to buy a flat, and Kasia is planning a renovation.”
I didn't know what to say. For years I had done everything I could to make this house our place on earth. My husband and I had worked hard to pay off the mortgage and create something we could call our home. Now that he was gone, this house had become even more important “the only place that reminded me of our family.”
“This isn't just a house” – I replied, trying to stay calm. „This is where you grew up, where we made memories. I can't just get rid of it.”
„Mom, it's just a building,– Kasia said, as if trying to convince me. „You can't be tied to the walls.”
“These aren't just walls,” I said firmly. “This is our life. This is your childhood. Every room, every corner has memories in it. How can you not understand that?”
There was silence. I saw a mixture of incomprehension and irritation in their eyes.
From that day on, the topic of selling the house came up more and more often. My children began to pressure me, citing logic, finances, and convenience. “You don't need such a big house, Mom,” they kept saying. “It's too much work and too much expense.”
But I knew there was more to their words – a desire for quick profit. I couldn't believe that my own children, whom I had raised with love and respect, were now trying to take something that was so precious to me.
Each meeting became more and more tense. One day, Marek said something that broke my heart: “If you don't sell this house, we'll have to deal with it eventually. Better to do it now, while you're still able to make a decision.”
“It's my house, Marek,” I replied, tears welling up in my eyes. “And I'll decide what to do with it. You have no right to do that.”
Since that conversation, our relationship has cooled. The children visit me less often, and I increasingly wonder if their love was genuine or if it was always about something else. This house, once a symbol of our family, has now become a source of conflict and pain.
Sometimes I sit in the living room, look at old photos, and wonder if I'm really doing the right thing. If my attachment to this place makes sense? Or maybe I should step down to regain peace and the love of my children?
But every time I think about selling, I feel like I'd lose more than just the house. I'd lose a part of myself, a part of the life I've built over the years. And even though I know I might be the one left here alone someday, I'm willing to take that risk. Because there are some things money can't buy – and one of them is the place I call home.
See what else we've written about in recent days: From life. “My mother always preferred my brother”: Now that she's sick, she expects me to take care of her