Dad, Give Me Your Flat — You’ve Already Lived Your Life.” After saying this, the daughter slammed the door…

Dad, give me your flatyouve already lived enough. With those words, his daughter slammed the door.
He had been alone since his wife left, a solitude that clung to him like a heavy black veil. Everything seemed drab. No sunshine, no strong morning tea, no old movies that once delighted the whole family could lift his spirits. Work was the only anchor in his life; as long as he could muster the strength, he went, because at home the silence was unbearable, ringing in his ears and piercing his heart.
Days drifted by one after another, identical photocopies: morning, bus, work, house, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, eventually vanishing from his routine. Their calls were brief, out of politeness, then stopped altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces for any hint of familiarity. Age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt an inner extinguishing. His soul ached, contracted. He thought of his wifehe would have wanted to apologize, but never dared to dial her number. He still loved her and regretted all the things left unsaid.
One day his daughter appeared at his door. He was as delighted as a child. He baked her favorite pastries, put out tea, fetched the old photo albumshe wanted to reminisce about the good old days. But her visit had a different purpose.
Dad, she said, her tone icy, youre living alone in a fourroom flat. Thats not right. Sell it. You can buy a studio for yourself and give me the rest of the money.
He couldnt believe his ears. He assumed she was joking, that she would laugh. Yet there was no irony in her eyes.
I Im not selling anything. This is my home your childhood bedroom is here, this is where I lived with your mother
Youve already lived enough! she snapped coldly. I need that money more than you do! Youre alone; why do you need so much space?
When will you come back? he asked weakly, barely recognizing his own voice.
She looked at him with indifference, slipped on her shoes, and said,
Til your funeral.
The door slammed. He froze, then collapsed onto the floor. A hammerlike pain struck his chest. He lay there for three days, without food, without strength, without hope. Finally he called his son.
Mike, come I dont feel well, he pleaded.
His son listened, a silence followed, then he said,
Dad, no offense, but that huge flat isnt necessary for you. I want to buy a car; maybe you could help Ill come if you decide to sell the flat.
Another silence settled, the kind that echoes in the ears and leaves a void in the soul. The call ended. He realized he had no children leftonly strangers who shared his blood.
The next day he entered a pharmacy and, by chance, ran into his exwifes brother. Surprised, the man greeted him.
Anne? he asked. How is she?
Shes in Italy, the man replied briefly. She married an Italian. Shes found her happiness.
Shes found her happiness The words burned him. He wasnt angry at her joy; he was angry at his own emptiness.
The following morning he woke with a weight in his chest. A low, dark sky hung over the streets. He pulled on his coat and stepped out, wandering a few blocks until he found an old bench in a courtyard. He sat, closed his eyes, and his heart delivered its final, painful blow.
His soul, exhausted by ache, indifference, and silence, finally rosetoward a place where no one betrays, where no one demands the last thing, where perhaps someone would again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.