True story of my life
41 — What Is the Price of Love?
For several days, Mohammad’s back had truly been bent.
Not a metaphor, not a play on words.
The pain, precise and merciless, had settled between his vertebrae;
as if something had been sitting there for years and was now reminding him of its weight.
The house behind which twelve years of toil had been laid,
not merely walls and a roof,
but the record of years in which he had spent himself.
He had worked in Canada’s minus-thirty-degree cold;
with fingers that froze,
with a body that, when it collapsed, others carried to the work trailer so it could warm a little and return again to the world of debt.
It was not easy money.
Every brick smelled of sweat.
Of the fear of falling behind.
Of a man who did not want to fail.
Half of the house was his share,
half his sister’s.
On paper, everything was in Mohammad’s name.
But ownership always happens on paper.
In reality, sometimes it is we who become owned.
The years from 2013 to 2022;
years of installments, pressure, cold, and debt.
Years when life had begun to resemble a balance sheet.
But now…
the house was suffocating him.
Everyone said:
“Are you crazy?”
“Why are you selling?”
“Why are you giving it away?”
“Why?”
No one asked:
“How heavy is it?”
Mohammad no longer listened to the voices.
Only one voice remained;
an inner voice that was neither of fear nor of calculating reason.
A voice that asked:
If love turns into a chain, is it still love?
On the day he decided, his hands trembled.
Not from doubt,
but from awareness.
He had been sitting.
He stood up — as if he had risen from beneath his own rubble.
He dialed the number.
Beep…
One.
Two.
Three.
“Hello. There’s something I need to say.”
Silence.
“This house is yours from this very moment. I don’t want even a single dollar from it.”
On the other end of the line, the silence grew heavier;
a silence that smelled of disbelief.
Cold sweat settled.
But the sentence was completed:
“We’ll put one symbolic dollar. I’ll return even that. The house is yours. Completely.”
He ended the call.
And the world… cracked.
He saw himself in the Earth’s core;
a place where the pressure is so immense that even stone softens.
Thick chains stretched from his being up to the surface of the earth.
For years he had thought they were supports.
But a support, when it becomes too heavy, turns into a shackle.
Suddenly—
an explosion.
The chains snapped.
They were hurled toward the sky.
They scattered into the void.
And Mohammad…
remained floating in nothingness.
Light.
Weightless.
Free.
But freedom is always accompanied by fear;
because there is nothing left to lean on.
He smiled.
Not from victory.
From understanding.
Under his breath he said:
“So the price of love… was freedom.”
The tears came—
not from sorrow.
Not even from joy.
But because he had understood
that sometimes the greatest acts of giving
are, in truth, the reclaiming of oneself.
#LoveYourself #HelloLemon8 #Lemon8Diary #truestory #AskLemon8
Reading Mohammad's story truly resonated with me, as it highlights the complex emotions tied to love, ownership, and personal freedom. Often, we invest years of hard work and sacrifice into something—whether it's a house, a relationship, or a dream—and these become both our pride and our chains. The feeling of pressure described between his vertebrae reflects a deeply physical and emotional toll, which many of us might overlook until it becomes impossible to ignore. I've witnessed similar struggles among immigrant communities where people endure harsh working conditions and financial burdens to build a better future for their families. Like Mohammad, the sacrifice is immense, and the weight of responsibilities often feels suffocating. Yet, deciding to let go, especially of something so meaningful, requires extraordinary bravery. It challenges the common notion that love must always come with sacrifice; sometimes, love means setting oneself free from burdens that no longer serve us. What struck me most is Mohammad’s realization that love turning into chains means the need for liberation. In my own life, I've seen how owning possessions or commitments on paper doesn’t always translate to true ownership of one’s happiness or peace. Mohammad’s choice to hand over the house without expectation symbolizes a profound act of self-love and understanding that giving can also be reclaiming. This story makes me reflect on the importance of balancing love with self-care and recognizing when it is time to break free from what weighs us down. His experience calls on us to consider how the price of love isn’t material—it's often the cost to our well-being and freedom. Ultimately, reclaiming oneself is a powerful journey that involves vulnerability, acceptance, and hope. This story invites readers to think deeply about what they are holding onto and whether those ties uplift or restrain them.
