“Dad, hand over the house—you’ve lived your life.” With those words, his daughter slammed the door shut.
He lived alone. Ever since his wife left, a heavy emptiness wrapped around him like a dense, dark blanket. Everything turned grey. There was no joy in sunny days, morning cups of strong tea, or the classic films the family once enjoyed together. Work was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. As long as he had the strength, he went in, because the silence at home was unbearable. It pierced his ears and cut his heart.
Days drifted by, one after another, each indistinguishable from the last: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter appeared less often, almost fading from his life. Their calls grew terse, obligatory. Eventually, they stopped answering altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, searching the faces of passersby, hoping to find a familiar one. It wasn’t aging he feared, but dying alone.
He felt an internal flame flicker and dull. His soul ached and shrank within him. He thought often of his wife—he wanted to apologize but never had the courage to dial her number. He still loved her and regretted all that went unsaid.
Then one day, his daughter showed up at the door. He was thrilled like a child, preparing her favorite pastries, brewing tea, and pulling out old photo albums, wanting to reminisce. But her visit was for a different reason.
“Dad,” she began with cold frankness, “you’re living alone in a four-bedroom house. It’s not fair. Sell it, buy yourself a flat, and give me the money.”
He couldn’t believe it. Thought she’d laugh, say it was a joke. But her eyes held no humor.
“I’m… I’m not selling anything. This is my home… your childhood room is here, your mother and I lived here…”
“You’ve had your time!” she snapped irritably. “I need the money more! You’re alone anyway; why do you need so much space?”
“When will you visit again?” he asked quietly, not recognizing his own voice.
She glanced at him indifferently and, while putting on her shoes, tossed over her shoulder, “At your funeral.”
The door slammed. He froze, then sank to the floor. The pain in his chest was like a hammer. He lay there for three days—without food, strength, or hope. Eventually, he called his son.
“Mike, please come… I’m not well,” he pleaded.
His son listened, paused, then said, “Dad, don’t take it wrong, 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 decided to sell.”
There was silence—the kind that rings in your ears and leaves a void in your soul. He hung up the phone, realizing he no longer had children, just strangers who shared his blood.
The next day, he visited the pharmacy. There, he bumped into his ex-wife’s brother who was surprised to see him and asked about her.
“Alice?” he asked. “How is she?”
“She moved to Italy,” came the short reply. “Married an Italian. Found her happiness.”
“Found her happiness…” Those words burned. He wasn’t against her happiness, only against his void.
The next morning, he woke up with a heaviness in his chest. The sky outside was low and gloomy. He threw on a coat, walked out, and wandered a few blocks. He found an old bench by a courtyard, took a seat, and closed his eyes. His heart gave one final, painful beat.
And his soul, weary of pain, indifference, and silence, finally soared—where betrayal doesn’t exist, where there’s no need to give up everything, where perhaps someone might say, “Dad, I missed you…”
But not here, not anymore.
