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

Dad, give me your apartmentyouve already lived enough. After saying that, the daughter slammed the door.
He lived alone. Since his wife left, solitude wrapped around him like a heavy black veil. Everything seemed gray. Nothing brought him joynot sunny days, not a strong morning tea, not the old movies that once delighted the whole family. Work was his only anchor in this world. As long as he had the strength, he went to it, because at home the silence was unbearable. That silence echoed in his ears and pierced his heart.
Days passed one after another, all identical, like photocopies: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, almost vanished from his life. Their calls were brief, out of politeness, then they stopped answering. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces, hoping to glimpse something familiar. Age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt an inner extinction. His soul ached, tightening. He thought of his wifehe would have liked to apologize, but never dared to dial her number. He still loved her. He regretted the things left unsaid.
One day his daughter appeared at his door. He was as happy as a child. He baked her favorite pastries, poured tea, pulled out old photo albumshe wanted to reminisce about the good old times. But her visit wasnt for that.
Dad, she said in a cold tone, youre living 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 thought she was joking, that she would laugh. But there was no irony in her gaze.
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 indifferently, slipped on her shoes and said,
See you at 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.
Michael, come I dont feel well, he pleaded.
His son listened. A silence followed, then he said,
Dad, no offense, but that huge apartment isnt really necessary for you. I want to buy a car; you could help me Ill come if you decide to sell the flat.
Another silence fell the kind that rings in 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. Surprised, the man greeted him.
Anne? he asked. How is she?
Shes gone to Italy, the brother replied briefly. She married an Italian. Shes found her happiness.
Shes found her happiness The words burned him. He wasnt against her happiness; he was against his own emptiness.
The following morning he woke with a heaviness in his chest. A low, dark sky pressed down outside. He pulled on his coat and stepped out, walking 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, weary of pain, indifference, and silence, finally roseto a place where no one betrays, where nobody asks for the last thing, where perhaps someone might again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.