I thought things would calm down, but the opposite happened.
One night I heard banging on the door. When I went out into the hallway, my two oldest children had broken the lock and were coming in, saying:
“This house belongs to everyone. You can’t keep locking us up.”
I looked at them with a calmness I didn’t expect to have at my age.
“To everyone… or to me?” I asked.
Neither of them answered.
They just stood there, tense, not knowing what to do.
That same night, as I locked my bedroom door from the inside, I decided everything.
The final decision: to sell everything
At dawn, I dressed in my light blue shirt, grabbed my papers, and went to the property registry with the lawyer.
There, I signed the sale of the house.
Not to my children.
Not to anyone in the family.
To an outside buyer, recommended by the lawyer.
Someone with no interest in staying there.
When I returned at midday, my children were in the living room. I looked at them calmly.
“The house is no longer mine,” I told them. “I sold it. In a few weeks, you’ll have to find somewhere else to live.”
Their faces went pale.
“How could you?” the youngest shouted.
“By dedicating my whole life to you, and receiving insults in return,” I replied.
I left the keys on the table, next to the empty envelope, and added:
“I’d rather sleep under a tree than live in a place where I’m no longer respected.”
I grabbed my hat, opened the door, and left without looking back.
That day, one story ended… and another began.
What do we learn from this story?
That a father can forgive many things, but not live where he no longer has dignity.
Respect isn’t begged for: it’s earned with boundaries.
And when those boundaries are crossed, one has the right to start over, even if alone.
