“Dad, hand over the house—your time’s up.” With these words, his daughter shut the door firmly.
He lived alone. After his wife left, loneliness engulfed him like a dark, heavy shroud. Everything turned bleak. Nothing brought him joy anymore—not sunny days, nor a strong cup of tea in the morning, nor the classic films they once watched as a family. Work was the only thing that kept him going. As long as he had the strength, he showed up at his job because the silence at home was unbearable, piercing his ears and breaking his heart.
Days blurred together, each indistinguishable from the last: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, and empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less until they nearly vanished from his life. Their calls were brief, out of duty, and eventually, they stopped answering altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning the faces of strangers, hoping to find a glimpse of someone familiar. He feared not aging, but dying alone.
He felt himself fading inside. His soul ached, tightening into a knot. He thought of his wife, wishing he could ask for forgiveness, but he never found the courage to call her. He still loved her and regretted all the things left unsaid.
Then one day, his daughter appeared on his doorstep. He was as happy as a child to see her. He baked her favorite pastries, brewed tea, and pulled out old photo albums, eager to reminisce. But her visit was far from a trip down memory lane.
“Dad,” she began bluntly, “you’re living alone in a four-bedroom house. It’s not fair. Sell it. Buy a one-bedroom place and give me the money.”
He was in disbelief. He thought she’d laugh and say it was a joke, but there was no hint of humor in her eyes.
“I… I’m not selling anything. This is my home… your nursery is here, where we lived with your mother…”
“You’ve had your life!” she snapped in irritation. “I need the money more! You’re alone; why do you need so much space?”
“When will you visit again?” he barely whispered, not recognizing his own voice.
She looked at him with indifference and, while putting on her shoes, said, “At your funeral.”
The door slammed. He stood frozen and then slowly sank to the floor. The pain in his chest was like a hammer blow. He lay there for three days. No food, no strength, no hope. Then he called his son.
“Michael, come over… I’m not well,” he pleaded.
His son listened. He paused, and 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 if you decided to sell the house.”
Then silence. The kind of silence that rings in your ears and leaves a void in your soul. He hung up. And understood—his children were gone. They were strangers now, bonded only by shared blood.
The next day, he went into a pharmacy and ran into his former brother-in-law. The man was surprised to see him and said hello.
“Anne?” he asked, “how is she?”
“She moved to Italy,” the man replied briefly. “Married an Italian. She found her happiness.”
“Found her happiness…” Those words burned. He wasn’t against her happiness, but he was against his own emptiness.
The next morning, he awoke with a heavy heart. The sky outside was overcast and gloomy. He threw on a coat and left the house. He walked a few blocks and found an old bench in a nearby park. He sat down and closed his eyes. His heart gave one final, painful beat.
And his soul, weary of pain, indifference, and silence, finally soared—somewhere where people don’t betray, where they don’t ask you to give away everything. Where, perhaps, someone would once again say, “Dad, I missed you…”
But that place was not here.
