Part 2: The Mirror of Independence

The Fireplace is my confessional. I talk to myself there, sometimes out loud.

“You could be quieter,” I say.
“I could,” I answer, “but that would mean agreeing — and I don’t.”

There’s peace inside me, yes, but not the kind that sits still. It’s the peace of a fighter who’s stopped apologizing for her nature. I speak what I believe is good to say — and I face the storm that follows. That’s the deal I made with myself long ago.

I know I was never fully understood — not as a woman, not as a mother, not as a daughter. I was “too much” for some, “too direct” for others. But I never saw the point in crying over life. I said what I thought, moved on, and fought my demons quietly — without spectators, without approval.

“Maybe I should be like others,” I sometimes whisper. “Smile, nod, follow the crowd. They seem so… liked.”
“But you’d lose yourself,” the fire answers.
“Exactly,” I sigh. “And I never wanted to be anyone else.”

Criticism used to wound me — now it just buzzes, like those persistent insects that somehow find their way into every calm evening. Let them buzz. Let them remind me I’m alive.

And still, my thoughts spiral to fairness. Maybe it’s the Polish blood in me, that stubborn sense of what’s right must be right for everyone. I see old parents giving their rights to one child, the same child expected to carry their care, health, and death on their back. And I want to scream, why?

Why one, when love and duty belong to all? Parents are for every child. Responsibility isn’t an inheritance; it’s humanity.

The fire flickers like conscience — steady, then wild.

“You think too much,” I tell myself.
“No,” I answer. “I think exactly enough.”