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

Dad, hand me your flat youve already had enough of life. With those words, his daughter slammed the door shut.
He had been alone ever since his wife left, the emptiness wrapping around him like a heavy black veil. Everything seemed dull. No longer did anything bring him joyneither sunny mornings, nor a strong cup of tea, nor the old movies that once delighted the whole family. Work was the only anchor he still had; 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.
Days slipped by, each one a carbon copy of the last: bus, office, house, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, almost disappearing from his life. Their calls were brief, polite, then stopped altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces, hoping to catch a glimpse of something familiar. Age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt an inner extinguishing. His soul ached and tightened. He thought of his wifehe would have loved to apologize, but never dared to dial her number. He still loved her and regretted the words left unsaid.
One day his daughter appeared at his doorstep. He was as thrilled as a child. He baked her favorite pastries, brewed tea, pulled out old photo albumshe wanted to reminisce about the good old days. Yet her visit wasnt for 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 she would laugh. But there was no sarcasm in her eyes.
I Im not selling anything. This is my home your childhood room 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 all alonewhy keep 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, At your funeral.
The door slammed shut. He froze, then collapsed onto the floor. A hammerlike pain thudded in 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, then a silence followed. Dad, no offense, but that huge flat isnt really necessary for you. I want to buy a car; maybe you could help Id come if you decided to sell the place.
Silence returned, the kind that rattles in the ears and leaves a hollow in the soul. He hung up, realizing his children were no longer his, only strangers who shared his blood.
The next morning he entered a pharmacy and, by chance, met his exwifes brother. The man, surprised, greeted him.
Anne? he asked. Hows she doing?
Shes in Italy, the brother replied shortly. She married an Italian and found happiness.
Found 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 pressed down outside. He pulled on his coat, stepped out, walked a few blocks, and sat on an old bench in a courtyard. He closed his eyes, and his heart delivered its final, painful thud.
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 once again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.