When Ania became a doctor and Marek went abroad and started a family, I felt proud.
For most of my life, I thought that hard work and dedication to family were the keys to happiness. I got up every day at dawn, first running the farm with my husband, then raising our children, Ania and Marek. As they grew up, I did everything I could to make their lives better – I worked two jobs so they could finish their studies, give them a head start in adulthood.
When Ania became a doctor and Marek went abroad and started a family, I felt proud.
I thought my sacrifice had paid off. I was tired, but happy that my children had achieved success. However, the more their lives gained momentum, the less often they called, the less space there was for me in their daily lives.
When my husband died, loneliness began to overwhelm me. The house that had once been full of life became quiet and empty. Every day I waited for the children to call, for their visits. But the calls were short, and the visits less and less frequent. “Mom, we have so much work,” Ania explained.
“Mom, we'll drop by sometime,” Marek promised. And I was left alone, with a cup of cold tea and memories.
One day Ania suggested that I move to a nursing home.
– Mom, there you will have people around you, care. You will not be alone– she said, trying to convince me.
I looked at her in disbelief.
– Nursing home? Ania, do you really think this is the place for me? I worked my whole life, built this house, and now I have to leave it?
– Mom, it's only for your own good, – she said, avoiding my gaze.
I didn't want to agree, but the pressure was growing. Marek called and convinced me that this was the best solution. He talked about the comfort, that I'd have company. Finally, tired of being alone and unsupported, I agreed.
Moving into a nursing home was like closing a chapter in my life. My room was small, soulless. A few family photos on my nightstand were the only reminder that I had once had a home that was my haven.
The first few days were the worst. I felt like an intruder in a place full of strangers. The nurses were nice, but their smiles were no substitute for talking to my loved ones. The other residents of the nursing home had their own stories, their own pains, but I couldn’t find a common language with them. Every day I wondered if I really deserved it. If my whole life had come down to this – loneliness in a room that wasn’t spoken?
I waited for my children to visit. Ania promised she’d come on weekends. Marek said he’d fly over for the holidays. But the weekends passed, and the door to my room remained closed. The holidays came and went without a single phone call. I felt more and more abandoned, as if the world had forgotten me.
One day, at lunch, an older woman sat down next to me. She had bright eyes and a warm smile.
– I'm Maria – she said. – I see you're new. How do you feel?
I looked at her with pain in my eyes.
– Honestly? I feel like my life has ended here.
Maria nodded.
– Many of us feel this way at first. But it's not over. Here, too, you can find something that brings joy.
Her words stuck in my mind. Over time, I began to take part in classes – handicraft workshops, group book readings. I slowly got to know other residents who, like me, felt abandoned by their loved ones. I found a part of myself in their stories.
Despite this, every day I waited for a call from my children. Every day I hoped that someone would visit me. And although I learned to find small joys in my new life, deep down I still asked myself: Did I really deserve this?? Was the sacrifice for my family supposed to end like this – loneliness in a place that would never be my home?
Because even though life in a nursing home gave me a semblance of community, nothing could replace the closeness of family. And I kept waiting, kept dreaming that one day it would change. That I would feel loved and needed again.
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