“Protect whom?”
Paweł looked at me.
Then he answered.
“Halina.”
The room fell silent.
For the first time in seven years, no one had an immediate response.
I sat beside my husband with Stanisław’s letter in my handbag.
I remembered the nights when I had washed his hands, helped him eat, and held the Bible open while he struggled to read. I remembered his apologies, his silences, and the quiet way he sometimes watched me work.
I had once believed that none of it mattered because the inheritance papers did not mention my name.
Now I understood that I had been too quick to accept someone else’s version of the truth.
The meeting was scheduled for Friday morning.
The notary had promised to explain what the records showed—and what they did not.
I did not know whether the cottage would legally become mine, whether the documents would reveal an old family obligation, or whether the truth would bring the Krawczyk brothers closer together or tear them apart.
