I am 72 years old, but my children only need the house—not me. In the end, I made a decision even harsher than theirs…

At seventy-two, I imagined I’d spend my remaining years in comfort, living in a single-storey, yellow-painted house on the outskirts of Lucknow, Uttar Pradesh. After my wife passed away, this house became my only possession—a place I believed my children would return to, gathering for Diwali or Holi, filling it with laughter and memories. But “comfort” turned out to be a cruel illusion.

Both my children—a son and a daughter—are married. My son lives in Noida, my daughter with her husband in Kanpur. Whenever they visited, they never asked about my aching joints, whether I was sleeping well, or if I’d managed to see the doctor at King George Hospital. Instead, their conversations circled around one thing:

— When will you give us the house?

I was stunned. I realized, in their eyes, I no longer mattered. All they cared about was a piece of land and a house. Once, my son said something that pierced my heart:

— You live alone, so why do you need such a big house? You should sign a gift deed and put it in my name. We’ll take good care of you after that.

I smiled, but it was bitter. They spoke of “taking care of me,” but their eyes were full of calculations. My daughter was no less direct:

— You should give me the house so your grandchildren have a stable place to stay. My brother already has his wife’s property; it’s only fair.

I stayed silent. Every word from my son felt like a knife to my heart. I didn’t blame them for wanting a place to live; I blamed them for seeing only the property and forgetting the father who built it with sweat and tears.

In the days that followed, I was plunged into turmoil. I asked myself, “What is the point of living to this age if my children don’t need me—only the house? What reason do I have left to hold on?”

One night, I sat in my quiet room, listening to the distant rickshaw bells from the street, and memories flooded back. I remembered the days when my children were small, how I worked as a construction laborer, then as a porter in Aminabad market, coming home to them and heading out again to lay foundations and plaster walls. I remembered the nights when they had fevers, staying up all night making ginger tea and rushing out to buy medicine. I recalled saving every rupee, never daring to buy myself a new kurta—just so they could go to school. The layers of memory pressed down; the more I thought, the tighter my throat became. Then, a thought struck me: If all they wanted was the house, I would show them what it truly meant to lose everything.

The next day, I quietly visited an old friend who worked at the tehsil land registry office. With his guidance, I went to the district sub-registrar and completed a gift deed, transferring the entire house to a local trust—a charity in Gomti Nagar that cares for orphans and the elderly. My hands trembled as I signed, but my heart felt at peace.

A few days later, I called both my children home. They thought I had some “good news” to share. As soon as I stepped into the house, my son smiled:

— Dad’s made up his mind, hasn’t he? Let’s talk about it.

I looked at them and quietly said:

— Yes, your father has decided. This house has been donated to a charitable trust.

The room fell silent. My son slammed his hand on the table, his voice rising:

— Dad, are you out of your mind? Why give it to strangers instead of leaving it for your own children and grandchildren?

My daughter broke down in tears, accusing me:

— How could you be so selfish, Dad? Didn’t you think about us?

I sighed:

— I’ve thought a lot, children. But I realized you only ever wanted the house, not me. So I gave it to orphans and lonely elders—at least they will value it.

They were speechless. Their eyes burned with anger and helplessness. Without another word, they left.

I sat alone in the empty house, tears streaming down my face. Was my decision cruel? Yes. I knew I had shattered their expectations. But they taught me something: you cannot buy family love with bricks and walls.

A week later, a representative from the trust arrived to take over the house. I packed a few memories—my wife’s old shawl, a faded wedding photo—and moved to the old age home run by the trust in Gomti Nagar. There, I met other elders abandoned by their children, and orphaned children who smiled with innocence despite their hardships. Strangely, my heart felt more at peace than ever before.

Someone once asked if I regretted my choice. I simply smiled:

— No. It’s better to give a house to someone who truly values it, than to keep it as a reason for my children to fight.

At seventy-two, I finally understood: sometimes, the choices that seem cruel are the only way to preserve one’s dignity. In Lucknow—a city full of noise and countless family stories—I chose the quiet part that belonged to me, and left the storm behind the old house’s door.