I spent almost twenty years building that house. Every beam, every brick, every nail meant something. We started when my son Paweł was just a kid. He’d hand me tools while I worked, and later he’d sit on the porch with tea, watching the sunset.
When he finished school, he went to the mine, just like I did. Thermos of tea, sandwiches wrapped in paper, the routine of a working man. We built the house together, and when Paweł left for Wrocław, the house felt emptier. He called less and less, but I never blamed him.
Life moves on. I stayed, kept the place standing, and kept myself busy.