Dad, give me your flatyouve already lived enough. With those words, his daughter slammed the door
He had been living alone ever since his wife left. Loneliness wrapped around him like a heavy, black veil, turning everything a dull gray. Nothing brought him joy any longerneither sunny days, nor a strong morning tea, nor the old movies that once delighted the whole family. Work was his only anchor; as long as he could muster the strength, he went, because at home the silence was unbearable, echoing in his ears and piercing his heart.
Day after day slipped by, each one a carbon copy: morning, bus, work, house, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, almost vanished from his life. Their calls were brief, polite, then stopped altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces, hoping to glimpse something familiar. Age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt an inner extinguishing. His soul ached, contracted. He thought of his wifehe would have liked 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, and he was as delighted as a child. He baked her favorite pastries, poured tea, pulled out old photo albumshe wanted to relive the good old days. But her visit wasnt about nostalgia.
Dad, she said, her tone icy, youre living alone in a fourroom flat. Its not fair. Sell it. You could buy a studio for yourself and give me the rest of the money.
He couldnt believe his ears. He thought she was joking, that shed laugh. Yet there was no irony in her stare.
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 alonewhy keep so much space?
When will you come back? he asked weakly, barely recognizing his own voice.
She looked at him indifferently, slipped on her shoes and said,
to your funeral.
The door slammed. He froze, then collapsed to the floor. A hammerlike pain pounded 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 begged.
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 Id come if you decided to sell the flat.
Silence returnedan echo that filled his ears and left a void in his soul. He hung up, realizing he no longer had children, only strangers who shared his blood.
The next day he entered a pharmacy and, by chance, ran into his exwifes brother. The man, surprised, greeted him.
Anne? he asked. How is she?
She went to Italy, the man replied shortly. She married an Italian. Shes found her happiness.
Shes found her happiness The words burned him. He wasnt angry at her happiness; he was angry at his own emptiness.
The following morning he awoke with a heaviness in his chest. A low, dark sky weighed outside. He pulled on his coat, stepped out, walked a few blocks, found an old bench in a courtyard, sat down, closed his eyes. His heart delivered its final, painful blow.
His soul, exhausted by pain, indifference, and silence, finally rosetoward a place where no one betrays, where no one demands the last thing, where perhaps someone might again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.
