“Dad, give up the flat—your time’s already passed.” With those words, his daughter slammed the door shut.
He lived alone. Ever since his wife left, loneliness wrapped around him like a heavy, dark blanket. Everything turned gray. Nothing brought joy—neither the sunny days, nor the strong morning tea, nor the old favorite films the family used to watch together. Work was the only thing that still anchored him to this world. As long as he had the strength, he kept going, because the silence at home was unbearable. It echoed painfully in his ears and cut at his heart.
Days drifted by one after another, all identical like photocopies: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter showed up less and less, almost vanishing from his life. Their calls became routine and terse. Eventually, they stopped picking up altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning the faces of passersby as if hoping to spot a familiar face among the crowd. It wasn’t aging he feared—but dying alone.
Gradually, he felt himself dimming from within, his spirit twisting into a knot. He missed his wife—he longed to apologize, but never mustered the courage to dial her number. He still loved her, regretting all the things left unsaid.
One day, his daughter appeared on the doorstep. He felt a childlike thrill of excitement. He made her favorite scones, brewed tea, and brought out old photo albums—wanting to reminisce about the past. But that wasn’t the purpose of her visit.
“Dad,” she started with a cold bluntness, “you’re living alone in a four-bedroom flat. It’s not fair. Sell it. Buy a one-bedroom place and give me the money.”
He couldn’t believe it. He expected her to laugh it off as a joke, but there wasn’t a hint of irony in her eyes.
“I’m… I’m not selling anything. This is my home… your childhood room is here, this is where we lived with your mum…”
“You’ve had your time!” she snapped impatiently. “I need the money more! You’re alone anyway, what do you need so much space for?”
“When are you coming back?” he asked in barely a whisper, unable to recognize his own voice.
She looked at him indifferently and, while putting on her shoes, flippantly replied, “For your funeral.”
The door banged shut. He froze. Then he simply sank to the floor. The pain in his chest was relentless, like a hammer. He lay like that for three days. No food, no energy, no hope. Finally, he called his son.
“Mike, come over… I’m not well,” he pleaded.
His son listened. Stayed silent. Then said, “Dad, don’t take this the wrong way, but you really don’t need such a big place. I want to buy a car, and you could help… I’d come over if you decide to sell the flat.”
The silence that followed was deafening, leaving a gaping hole in his soul. He hung up. Realizing—his children were no longer his children. They were strangers who carried his blood.
The next day, he stopped by a pharmacy. There, he ran into his former wife’s brother. The brother seemed surprised, greeted him.
“Anne?” he asked, “How is she?”
“She moved to Italy,” the man replied shortly. “Married an Italian. Found her happiness.”
“Found her happiness…” The words stung. He didn’t begrudge her happiness. He begrudged his own emptiness.
The following morning, he woke with a weight on his chest. The sky outside hung low and gloomy. He put on his coat and stepped out. He walked a couple of blocks and found an old bench by the courtyard. He sat down and closed his eyes. His heart gave one final, painful beat.
And his soul, weary from pain, indifference, and silence, finally soared—somewhere it wouldn’t be betrayed. Where nobody asked for the last thing he had. Where maybe, just maybe, someone would say, “Dad, I missed you…”
But that was no longer here.
