“Dad, give up the flat—you’ve had your time.” After his reply, his daughter uttered three words and slammed the door.
William Thompson had lost his wife just six months earlier. With her went the last anchor in his life. He still went to work—not out of necessity, but to cling to some semblance of purpose. The job was his salvation, his foothold. In the familiar routine of the days, he found fleeting comfort. More often now, he lingered on the streets in the evenings—just wandering, reluctant to return to the empty, cold flat. A home without his wife had become a hollow box, where the echo of his footsteps sounded worse than silence.
His children—his daughter and son—visited him rarely. Less and less. Then almost not at all. It seemed that with their mother’s passing, whatever had loosely held the family together had vanished too. William feared loneliness, but even more, he dreaded becoming nothing but a useless old man to his own children.
He caught himself more frequently scanning the faces of passersby, hoping to spot familiar features. He’d stare, wishing someone would stop, greet him, embrace him. But people walked on by. His heart ached all the more—not from illness, but from emptiness.
Then she came—Emily, his daughter. Not with care or warmth, but with calculation in her eyes. Her visits were always brief, cold, and boiled down to the same conversation: the flat. This time, she didn’t mince words.
“Dad, how much longer? You’re living alone in a four-bedroom flat—it’s ridiculous. Sell it, buy a one-bedder. Give me the profit—we’ve got a mortgage, the kids need a proper room.”
He stayed silent. His hands trembled. Words stuck in his throat.
“Emily, you know this was mine and your mum’s home. I can’t just—” He didn’t finish.
His daughter stood abruptly.
“You’ve had your time, Dad. Think about us for once,” she snapped, irritation trembling in her voice.
“And when will you next think about me?” he asked softly, barely a whisper.
She was already at the door. Turning, she threw back:
“After you’re gone.”
The door slammed. The sharp sound echoed through the flat like a gunshot. William sat in the silence for a long time, unable to move. Then, gathering himself, he dialled his son’s number.
“Oliver, talk to me. She came again… about the flat… I don’t want to sell.” His voice shook.
A sigh crackled down the line.
“Dad, be honest—what do you need all that space for? You’re alone. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of help either. My car’s on its last legs. If you sold, I could upgrade.”
“When will you come to see me?” he asked, hope straining his words.
“If you sell the flat—I’ll come.”
He hung up. Pulled on his coat and left. The weight in his chest was unbearable. The air felt thick, suffocating. He walked without direction until he found an empty bench by the pond. Sat. Dropped his head. His heart laboured, slow and heavy. Then… it simply stopped.
William Thompson died alone. Among the trees, under a grey sky, with his phone in his pocket. No one waited for him. No one searched. No one loved him. His heart didn’t fail from betrayal—but from indifference. He wasn’t wanted as a man, or a father. Only as the owner of property.
A day later, the door slammed again in the flat. Emily arrived—with keys in hand. Eyes dry, full of plans. Oliver pulled up outside—in a brand-new car. The flat smelled of dust and solitude. And on the table—an old photograph. All of them together. With Mum. With Dad. Happy. Back then.
But happiness, like love, fades—when measured in metres and square feet.
