This house was our dream. < img src = "https://zycie.news/crrops/95472f/620x0/1/0/2025/04/16/ap93f6z1dgusovhi8smwvj42lflcqce1cvm8yk.jpg" alt = "woman @pexels" Style = "background-color: rgba (71.53.42.1)" > < p > brick after brick, year after year & ndash; We built it together. I wore a bucket with mortar, he was arranging a roof. There was no money for construction teams & ndash; Only our hands, sweat, fatigue and love. We laughed that it would be our fortress. Our children were to grow up here, we were to grow old here.
< p > and it was so for years. Holidays at the fireplace. Lunches in the kitchen, which I designed myself. Pok & icute; j children, wiped noses and fever compressed. They were not just the walls. It was my story.
< p > and then & hellip; It started to move away. First silence at the table. Then get more and more about the recesses. Then the phone, which was always a screen in D & Amp; Oacute; ł. Until he finally sat in front of me and said:< p > & ndash; It's over. I don't love you anymore. I fell in love with someone else. I move out.
< P >My world collapsed, but not a house & ndash; Not yet. Because I thought that at least he & ndash; The house, which we built together & ndash; will still be m & oacute; j.< p > It was not.
< p > I agreed to the divorce of & oacute; d not to pull this passion. I assumed that a man cannot be stopped. But I did not foresee one thing: that I would lose everything that I was able to lose with paper and signature.
< p > The house was rewritten for it — It was more convenient, we agreed a long time ago. & AMP; BDQUO; It doesn't matter, we are married & rdquo; & ndash; M & oacute; We were.
< p > A few months after the divorce wr & oacute; I had my own things. The door opened. < p > smiling, fragrant with perfumes, in my former bathrobe. < p > & ndash; Good morning & ndash; I said calmly. & ndash; I came to take a few things from the room on the g & oacute; river< p > looked at me with superiority, which had the face of victory. < br /> & amp. Please don't be angry, but & Hellip; This is not your place anymore. This house is our life now. We don't want anyone from the past to come back here.
< p > I didn't shout. I didn't cry. I stood on the porch where my geraniums once grew, and I just whispered in my mind: < br /> & ampquo; This is my place. My stairs. My windows. My tears in this mortar. & Amp;< p > but the place is not only land and walls. It's a memory. A memory & Hellip; stays with me.
< p > and although today I rent a small apartment in a block of flats, although I look through the window at a completely different landscape – I have a home in me. True. The one that I built not only of bricks, but from my heart. ~ 60 > < p > A They ? may have walls. But they will not build what I carry.