For seven years, I washed, fed, and turned my father-in-law in bed, always with an old Bible beside his pillow. And when he died, the notary said dryly that he had left me nothing. It wasn’t until a month after the funeral that I found an envelope under his mattress, which silenced the entire family.

We embroidered.

We drank tea.

We were silent.

Sometimes we cried.

And then I thought that maybe Stanisław left me more than just a home.

Maybe he left me a place where invisible women become visible again.

Andrzej and Mirosław did not come.

Only once did Andrzej send another letter through his lawyer, but the matter quickly fell apart. The documents were clean. The notary confirmed everything. The doctor who treated Stanisław certified that on the day the deed was signed, he was conscious and understood what he was doing.

Then came silence.

But the hardest part wasn’t enduring their anger.

The hardest thing was to stop mentally proving that I hadn’t stolen it.

That I didn’t apologize.

That I wasn’t manipulating.

That I wasn’t a “caregiver who got lucky.”

I carried their voice within me for a long time.

Until one day, a woman in her seventies came to the studio. She spent a long time examining the napkins, fingering the embroidery, and then stopped at the Holy Bible.

“Whose?” she asked.

— Father-in-law.

— Was he a believer?

I thought about it.

— In my own way. Strictly.

The woman smiled barely perceptibly.

— Maybe he believed correctly. Not with his tongue.

She bought a small napkin and left.

And I stood by the shelf for a long time, looking at the worn cover.

Not with language.

Not.

That’s right.

Stanisław Krawczyk was no gentle saint. He could be sharp. He could remain silent when I needed a single “thank you.” He could wound me with a cold gaze. He could pretend he didn’t hear me sigh with exhaustion.

But in the end he did something that many “good” people wouldn’t have the courage to do.

He didn’t give me the leftovers.

He did me justice.

One evening, after closing time, I was alone in the studio. A warm June dusk was settling outside the window. The orchard smelled of mint. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

I opened his Holy Bible.

The pages rustled softly.

It opened again where it was underlined:

“Faith without works is dead.”

I placed my fingers on that sentence.

And suddenly I said out loud:

— I was angry with you, Dad.

The word “dad” came out of nowhere.

I didn’t plan it.

I didn’t prepare it.

It simply lived somewhere inside me for a long time, waiting for me to stop being afraid.

“I was angry,” I repeated. “Because I thought you hadn’t seen me.”

It was quiet in the studio.

— And you saw it. He just remained silent, as always.