My granddaughter was six years old when, during Sunday lunch, she asked me a question I could not forget for a long time.
— Grandma… when you go to heaven, will I be able to have your room? The one with the balcony?
The spoonful of soup stopped halfway to my mouth.
I looked at Zosia. Her big hazel eyes gazed at me innocently. Anna had exactly the same eyes when she was her age.
Zosia waited for my answer as if she had simply asked whether we would go to the playground tomorrow.
— Because Mom said that when you go to heaven, I’ll sleep there — she added.
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say.
I looked at my daughter.
Anna was sitting across from me, straight-backed and calm. She did not look embarrassed. Quite the opposite — she looked like someone who had been waiting for this conversation for a long time.
— It’s true, Mom — she said. — I’m not going to lie to my child.
I put the spoon down on my plate.
The only sounds in the kitchen were the ticking of the clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
— Anna… what exactly have you been telling her?
— The truth. One day, you won’t need this apartment anymore.
I stared at her, unable to believe she had really said that.
— I’m still alive — I answered quietly. — I’m breathing. I’m sitting right here in front of you.
— No one is saying you’re going to die — she sighed. — But we have to be realistic.
Realistic.
That word sounded strange in my ears.
As if my life had already become nothing more than an obstacle in someone else’s plans for the future.
For twenty-eight years, I had worked in a pharmacy in the Bronowice district of Lublin. I dispensed medications, took the blood pressure of elderly women, and knew the stories of half the people in the neighborhood.
Three years ago, I retired.
Henryk and I had received the apartment as a company-assigned flat. Later, we bought it. Three rooms, third floor, in a block built in the 1980s.
It wasn’t luxurious.
But it was our home.
Henryk died eight years ago.
Lung cancer.
Four months from the diagnosis to the end.
After his death, I couldn’t bring myself to throw anything away for a long time. His books were still on the shelf. On the dresser were our photographs — from vacations by the Baltic Sea, from our wedding, from Anna’s wedding, and from Zosia’s christening.
Over the years, I learned how to live alone.
Until a year and a half ago, when Anna showed up at my door with a suitcase in one hand and Zosia in the other.
Her husband, Marcin, had gone to the Netherlands for work.
Then it turned out that he had found something else there, too.
A new life.
Anna was left without a rented apartment, without savings, and with debts Marcin had left behind.
What could I do?
She was my daughter.
My only child.
I opened the door to them.
I gave them the bedroom and the small room that had once been Henryk’s study.
I stayed in my own room.
The one with the balcony.
The room where I drank tea in the evenings and looked at the linden tree growing below the building.
At first, Anna was grateful.
She cooked. She cleaned. In the evenings she would say:
— Thank you, Mommy.
Then she stopped.
At first, it was little things.
She moved my flowerpots because they blocked the light.
She threw away the crocheted doilies my mother had made because they “collected dust.”
She bought a new kettle because mine “didn’t match the kitchen.”
My kitchen.
Whenever I tried to protest, she would simply wave her hand.
— Mom, we live together. We have to compromise.
Over time, I understood what that compromise meant to her.
I was supposed to give in.
She was supposed to take over more and more parts of my life.
Her cosmetics filled the bathroom.
Her shoes were everywhere in the hallway.
Zosia’s toys took over the living room.
And I gradually pushed myself further and further aside.
Step by step.
Until I had only one room left.
The one with the balcony.
The last piece of my home.
And that was the room my six-year-old granddaughter asked about that Sunday.
When Zosia went to her room to draw, I put down my napkin and looked at my daughter.
— Anna, tell me honestly. Why did you tell Zosia that she would get my room?
— Because she will get it one day.
— “One day”?
— Mom, you aren’t going to live forever.
I felt a chill in my stomach.
— This is my room.
— Technically, it’s ours — she replied.
I looked at her.
— Ours?
— We’ve been living here for a year and a half.
For a moment, I couldn’t find the words.
“Ours.”
The apartment was in my name.
Henryk and I had paid for it down to the last penny.
With our money.
Our savings.
Our lives.
And now my own daughter was telling me it was ours.
— I let you in because you’re my daughter — I finally said. — Not because I gave you my apartment.
— You always have to control everything, don’t you?
— What?
— Even after you die, you still want to decide who will sleep in which room.
I tightened my fingers around the edge of the table.
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t want her to see how deeply she had hurt me.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I lay in my bed, watching the shadows of the linden tree move across the ceiling.
I thought about Henryk.
He always used to say:
“Home isn’t the walls. Home is the people.”
But Henryk didn’t live long enough to see the day when those same people began counting your square meters before you had even died.
The next morning, I got up earlier than usual.
I made coffee.
I opened the balcony door.
I looked at the linden tree.
And I made my decision.
I called a notary’s office.
— Our earliest available appointment is Tuesday at eleven — the secretary said.
— Please book it for me.
On Tuesday, I sat in front of the notary with my handbag resting on my lap.
— I want to make a will — I said.
— Of course.
— I am leaving the apartment to my granddaughter. To Zosia. All of it.
The notary looked at me carefully.
— I need to warn you about something. Your daughter is your only statutory heir. If you exclude her from the will, she may be entitled to a reserved share of the inheritance.
— I know.
— There is another issue. Zosia is a minor. Until she turns eighteen, her legal representative will manage her property.
Anna.
I was silent for a moment.
— Is there a way to prevent that?
— Yes. You can stipulate in the will that the inherited property will not be under the parents’ management. In that case, you must name someone who will manage it.
I looked at the lamp on the desk.
A green lampshade.
The same kind Henryk had once had in his study.
— Then please put down my brother.
— First and last name?
— Tadeusz Wróbel. He lives in Puławy. He is six years younger than I am. And in all his life, he has never taken a single penny from me.
The notary nodded.
I signed the document.
This time, my hand did not tremble.
On the way home, I held the folder tightly against me.
When I entered the apartment, Zosia ran out of her room.
— Grandma!
She was holding a piece of paper.
— I drew flowers for you! And a butterfly!
I smiled.
— They’re beautiful, sweetheart.
I hugged her and stroked her hair.
Then I went into my room.
I placed the folder on the dresser, beside the photograph of Henryk and me.
Anna didn’t ask where I had been.
Maybe she hadn’t noticed.
Or perhaps she sensed that something had changed.
I didn’t tell her anything.
Not yet.
Because sometimes you don’t need to shout.
You don’t need to argue.
You don’t need to prove that you’re right.
Sometimes all you need to do is make a decision.
I opened the balcony door.
I sat down in the armchair.
I looked at the linden tree.
The first fresh leaves were appearing on its branches.
In a few weeks, everything would be green.
It was going to be a beautiful summer.
And I intended to spend it here.
In my room.
On my balcony.
In my home.
And someday, when my time truly comes, Zosia will get this room.
But not because her mother has already started dividing my life into square meters.
She will get it because I decided that she would.
And this time, I will have the final say.
