I am Tamara Alekseevna, seventy-four years old. I used to have a full life: a job I adored, a loving husband, a warm home, and three children.
But ten years ago, my husband passed away—his heart couldn’t take it.
After his d.eath, the house became empty, and I became someone no one needed.
My children started calling less, and the phone grew silent more often.
The one who distanced herself the most was my youngest daughter, Irina.
Since childhood, she had been focused and ambitious, dreaming of a big career.
When she entered university in the capital, I was overjoyed. To help her, I gave everything: my savings, my mother’s jewelry, even sold my father’s old “Volga.”
Years passed.
Irina got married and had a son.
We saw each other rarely and talked even less—she was always in a rush, cutting the conversation short.
Then, she stopped calling altogether. And one day, after three months of silence, she unexpectedly came to visit.
“Mom, it’s hard for you to be alone. It’s time to think about a nursing home,” she said, avoiding my gaze.
“They’ll take care of you, you’ll have company, and doctors.”
I remained silent.
My heart tightened with pain, but I no longer had the strength to resist. I just nodded.
The next day, we ended up in a private retirement home on the outskirts of the city. A modern, beautiful building with a garden and cozy rooms.
Irina quickly signed the documents, said a brief goodbye, and left, leaving me alone among unfamiliar walls as if she had rid herself of an unnecessary burden.
Sitting on a bench, I watched the lilac petals fall.
Memories surfaced: how my husband and I built this very building, how we gathered money, how we believed that in our old age, we would feel dignified. It was our joint project. Our property.
He had everything signed over to me and said back then, “Let it be in your name, just in case the children decide to hurt us.”
I walked around the grounds and peeked into the administration building. The director, a young man in glasses, smiled warmly.
“Tamara Alekseevna? What are you doing here?
You’re the owner of all this!”
I nodded. My voice betrayed me, trembling. He seemed to immediately understand what was happening.
“Would you like me to ban your daughter from coming here?”
I bitterly smiled.
“No… I’ll make a different decision.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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