My dear friends, my name is Isabella. today I’m here to share with you a dream, a longing, and also a quiet heartache.

I am still staying in my parents’ home. This house is woven into my very being.

It is a living archive of my childhood, my family, my dead, the animals I loved, and the trees that stood as gentle guardians of my growing years.

To me, it is not a property—it is a symbol, a sanctuary of the soul.

My parents’ house is made of three apartments: the attic, where they live and where I was born and raised; the middle floor, identical to the first, where my aunt, uncle, and cousins once lived; and the ground floor, divided in two—one half mine, the other belonging to my aunt, uncle, and cousins.

All of this is wrapped in a wide garden and a courtyard that has held decades of footsteps, laughter, and seasons.

Out of all five cousins, it seems that I am the only one who feels this place in my bones.

From what I have understood, my cousins intend to sell their part once they inherit it.

My brother—an extraordinary man of immense generosity—has promised never to sell his share.

Just to see me happy, just to keep me close, he wants me to be able to live here peacefully when my husband and I grow older and mountain life becomes too difficult.

And yet, the problem remains: I would need to purchase my cousins’ apartment.

And I simply do not have the money But I do not want strangers to enter this place.

I have preserved its memory.

I know the story of every tree, every flower bed.

I remember where our beloved animals rest.

I remember the ghosts of the trees that are no longer here.

I know where the cherry tree once stood, the one that held my childhood swing; I know the corner where three graceful birches grew; I remember the magnificent willow from which my grandmother made little crowns for my hair.

I remember where she hung the laundry, the fruit trees that vanished, the vegetable gardens that are now only grass.

I remember winter snow and sledding down the garden slope, the summer nights playing ping-pong, and the old dog’s sleeping spot—the dog who was my grandmother’s, but in truth mine, gifted to me when I was only a month old and he was three.

In these past months spent here, I have rediscovered every hidden corner.

I weeded the flower beds, cleaned the stone paths, planted hundreds of tulip bulbs in the hope that spring will resurrect their colours.

I have plans for the coming spring: hedges for privacy, a new birch to replace the lifeless stump, roses in my grandmother’s flower bed.

But I want this house to be mine alone, and I do not know how to make that possible, because I cannot afford to buy my aunt and uncle’s apartment.

And I cannot simply sell the home where I live in the mountains now.

It is absolutely out of the question for my husband, and so I must rely solely on my own strength and resources if I am to protect this place and turn it into a sanctuary of love for trees, insects, and every creature that finds refuge here.

The house is still in the countryside, and even though it is surrounded by other homes, the land around it is large enough for me to host and build a small shelter for the cats who need a safe place. I could even help create a second refuge for abandoned rabbits. The property is so spacious that it would truly be possible to fill this house with love and care, turning it into a sanctuary, an ark, an oasis for them—and for me, who has dedicated my whole life to them.

How can I keep strangers away from this place? How can I stop unknown feet from running across this lawn, from stepping on the nameless graves of my animals?

How can I protect this home from slipping away, when all I want is to fill it with bird feeders, warm shelters for stray cats, rose bushes, and beautiful trees?

How can I make this dream real?

I have no one to ask for financial help, and what I have is not enough.

I already have a house of my own that I am paying for, and I know this dream may sound selfish…

And yet, to me, it feels like honouring the memory of my father, who wanted this home for me, my siblings, and our beloved grandparents.

But only I care for this house.

No one else feels for it what I feel.

What can I do?

PS: These watercolours faithfully reproduce the cobblestone courtyard of my home (or rather, my parents’ home) with all the piles of leaves I’ve gathered over these past days… and my beloved garden and the sunset from my parents dining room.

It looks exactly like this. Exactly like this.

PLEASE HELP ME.