As the years went by, I found myself feeling increasingly lost. My children treated me like an outsider, as if I no longer belonged in their world.
The final rupture came when I divorced Piotr. A powerful and well-respected CEO, he easily won their loyalty. With him, life was more convenient, more comfortable. And me? I was left behind—a woman cast aside by her husband, a mother forgotten by her own children.
In time, they drifted even further away. I only learned of their luxurious vacations, fine dining experiences, and grand life plans through acquaintances. Meanwhile, I remained alone in my empty apartment. Every piece of news about them cut through me like shards of glass.
One day, I realized I needed to start living for myself. I moved abroad for work, and for the first time in ages, I felt a sense of freedom.
When my time overseas ended, I returned home, renovated my apartment, bought new furniture and appliances, and set aside savings for my later years.
By then, my children had built their own lives—marriages, children, celebrations. Then, out of nowhere, I received the news: Piotr had passed away from a heart attack. His entire estate had gone to his young wife, leaving my children with nothing.
Suddenly, their resentment transformed into affection.
At first, they started visiting more often, bringing small tokens—chocolates, fruit, polite inquiries about my health. I greeted them with warmth, though I knew the sudden shift in their attention wasn’t without ulterior motives.
Now, at 72, I am healthy, full of energy, and content. But recently, my daughter, Elżbieta, began hinting that I should consider my future, particularly my will. Not long after, my granddaughter, Klara, who had been married just a year, came to see me.
“Grandma, don’t you feel lonely living by yourself?” she asked, her voice laced with concern.
“No, I’m quite happy here,” I replied.
“But the apartment is so big,” she continued. “It must be hard to manage on your own. Maybe my husband and I could move in? It would be fun, and we wouldn’t have to worry about rent.”
I chuckled. Her intentions were obvious.
“Who said you wouldn’t pay?” I responded evenly. “I’d give you a generous discount.”
Klara was taken aback. It was clear she had expected me to simply hand over everything without question. But I had other plans.
Years ago, I had written my will—upon my passing, the apartment would be sold, and the proceeds donated to a foundation for sick children.
When my daughter learned of this, she erupted in fury, accusing me of robbing my grandchildren of their future. My son, James, took a softer approach, subtly suggesting that he would be willing to care for me. But their so-called love no longer swayed me.
My heart had turned to stone.