“Dad, give me your flatyou’ve had your turn at life.” With those words, his daughter slammed the door behind her.
He lived alone. Ever since his wife had left, loneliness draped over him like a heavy black shroud. Everything seemed grey. Nothing brought him joy anymorenot the sunny days, nor a strong cup of tea in the morning, nor the old films that once delighted the whole family. Work was his only tether to the world. As long as he had the strength, he went, because home held nothing but unbearable silence. That silence rang in his ears and pierced his heart.
The days melted into one another, all the same, like carbon copies: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter came less and less, nearly vanished from his life. Their calls were brief, perfunctory. Then they stopped answering altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning the faces of passersby, hoping to find something familiar. Old age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt himself fading inside. His soul ached, shrinking into itself. He thought of his wifehe would have liked to apologise, but never dared dial her number. He still loved her. He regretted all the words left unspoken.
Then one day, his daughter appeared at his door. His heart leapt like a childs. He baked her favourite scones, brewed tea, pulled out old photo albumshe wanted to relive happier days. But she hadnt come for that.
“Dad,” she said, her voice icy, “youre rattling around in this big house all by yourself. Its not fair. Sell it. You could buy a small flat and give me the rest.”
He couldnt believe his ears. He thought she was joking, that shed laugh any second. But there was no humour in her eyes.
“I… I wont sell. This is my home… your childhood bedroom is here, your mother and I”
“Youve had your time!” she snapped. “I need that money more than you do! What use is all this space to a lonely old man?”
“When will you come back?” he asked faintly, barely recognising his own voice.
She looked at him with indifference, slipping on her shoes. “At your funeral.”
The door slammed. He stood frozen. Then collapsed to the floor. Pain hammered in his chest. He lay there for three days. No food, no strength, no hope. Finally, he called his son.
“Michael, please… I dont feel well,” he pleaded.
His son listened. A long silence followed. Then, coldly: “Dad, dont take this the wrong way, but that big house is wasted on you. I need a new caryou could help me out… Id visit if you sold it.”
Another silence. The kind that echoes in your ears and hollows out your soul. He hung up. Understood he no longer had children. Only strangers who shared his blood.
The next day, he went to the chemist. There, by chance, he bumped into his ex-wifes brother. The man looked surprised but nodded in greeting.
“Anna?” he asked hesitantly. “How is she?”
“Shes gone to Italy,” the man replied curtly. “Married an Italian. Found happiness at last.”
*Found happiness at last.* The words burned. He wasnt against her happiness. He was against his own emptiness.
The following morning, he woke with a weight on his chest. Outside, a heavy grey sky pressed low. He pulled on his coat and stepped out. Walked a few streets. Found an old bench in a quiet square. Sat down. Closed his eyes. His heart gave one last, painful thud.
His soul, weary of pain, indifference, and silence, finally roseto a place where no one betrays you. Where no one asks for whats left. Where perhaps, just once more, someone might say to him: “Dad, I missed you…”
But that place wasnt here.
