“Dad, give me your flatyou’ve already lived your life.” With those words, his daughter slammed the door behind her.
He lived alone. Since his wife had left, solitude draped over him like a heavy black shroud. Everything seemed grey. Nothing brought him joy anymorenot sunny days, not a strong cup of tea in the morning, not the old films that once delighted the whole family. Work was his only anchor in this world. As long as he had the strength, he went there, because at home, there was only unbearable silence. It rang in his ears and pierced his heart.
The days slipped by, one after another, all the same, like carbon copies: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, nearly vanished from his life. Their calls were brief, out of politeness. 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 the slow extinguishing inside. His soul ached, curled in on itself. He thought of his wifehe wanted to apologise but never dared dial her number. He still loved her. He regretted all the things left unsaid.
Then, one day, his daughter appeared at his door. He was as giddy as a child. He baked her favourite scones, brewed tea, dug out the old photo albumshe wanted to relive the good old days. But that wasnt why shed come.
“Dad,” she said, her voice icy, “you live alone in a four-bedroom flat. Its not fair. Sell it. You could buy a studio for yourself and give me the rest.”
He couldnt believe his ears. He thought she was joking, that shed laugh. But there was no humour in her eyes.
“I Im not selling anything. This is my home your childhood room is here, this is where I lived with your mother”
“Youve lived enough!” she snapped. “I need that money more than you! What do you even do with all this space?”
“When will you come back?” he whispered, barely recognising his own voice.
She glanced at him indifferently, slipping on her shoes. “At your funeral.”
The door slammed. He stood frozen. Then crumpled to the floor. A pain in his chest struck like a hammer. He lay there for three days. No food, no strength, no hope. Eventually, he called his son.
“Michael, please come I dont feel well,” he pleaded.
His son listened. Silence followed. Then: “Dad, dont take this the wrong way, but that big flats wasted on you. Im saving for a caryou could help me out Id visit if you sold it.”
Then, silence. The kind that rings in your ears and leaves a hollow in your soul. He hung up. Understood he no longer had children. Only strangers who shared his blood.
The next day, he walked into a chemists. By chance, he bumped into his ex-wifes brother. The man looked startled but nodded.
“Alicehow is she?” he asked.
“Shes in Italy,” the man said curtly. “Married an Italian. Found her happiness.”
*Found her happiness.* The words burned. He wasnt against her happiness. Just his own emptiness.
The next morning, he woke with a weight on his chest. Outside, a low, dark sky pressed down. He pulled on his coat and walked. A few streets over, he found an old bench in a courtyard. Sat. Closed his eyes. His heart gave one last, painful thud.
His soul, weary of pain and indifference and silence, finally rosetoward a place where no one betrays you. Where no one demands the last of what you have. Where, perhaps, someone might say to him again: *”Dad, I missed you”*
But that place wasnt here.
