Dad, Hand Over Your Flat — You’ve Already Lived Your Life.” After those words, the daughter slammed the door…

Dad, give me your flat youve already lived enough. With those words, his daughter slammed the door.
He was alone. Since his wife left, loneliness had settled around him like a heavy black veil. Everything seemed dull. No sunshine, no strong morning tea, no old movies that once delighted the whole family could bring him joy any longer. Work was his only anchor; as long as he could, he went in, because at home the silence was unbearable, echoing in his ears and piercing his heart.
Days drifted by, each one a copy of the last: morning, bus, work, house, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, almost disappearing from his life. Their calls were brief, out of courtesy, then stopped altogether. He roamed 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, tightened. He thought of his wifehe would have liked to apologize, but never dared to dial her number. He still loved her and regretted the things left unsaid.
One day his daughter appeared at his door, and his joy was that of a child. He baked her favorite pastries, poured tea, and brought out old photo albums, hoping to reminisce about the good old days. But she wasnt there for nostalgia.
Dad, she said, her tone icy, you live alone in a fourroom flat. Thats 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 assumed she was joking, that she would laugh. Yet there was no sarcasm 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 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, At your funeral.
The door shut hard. He froze, then collapsed to the floor. A hammerlike pain struck his chest. He lay there for three days, without food, strength, or hope. Finally he called his son.
Michel, come I dont feel well, he begged.
His son listened, then a silence followed. Dad, no offense, but that huge flat isnt necessary for you. I want to buy a car; you could help me Id come if you decided to sell the flat.
Silence returnedthe kind that rattles the ears and leaves a void in the 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. Hows she doing?
Shes gone to Italy, the man replied shortly. She married an Italian. Shes found happiness.
Shes found happiness The words burned him. He wasnt angry at her joy; he was angry at his own emptiness.
The following morning he awoke with a weight in his chest. A low, dark sky loomed outside. He pulled on his coat, stepped out, walked a few streets, and found an old bench in a courtyard. He sat, closed his eyes, and his heart delivered its final, painful blow.
His soul, weary of pain, indifference, and silence, finally roseto a place where no one betrays, where no one demands the last thing, where perhaps someone will again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.