Dad, hand over your flat youve already lived your life. Those words made his daughter slam the door behind her.
He had been alone ever since his wife left, the emptiness wrapping around him like a heavy black veil. Everything seemed drab. No sunshine, no strong morning tea, no classic movies that once filled the household with laughter could spark any joy. Work was his only anchor; as long as his strength held, he went in, because at home the silence was unbearable, echoing in his ears and piercing his heart.
Days passed one after another, each a carbon copy: bus, office, house, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, eventually fading 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 him dying alone did.
He felt an inner extinguishing. His soul ached, tightening. He thought of his wife he would have liked 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 door, and he was as delighted as a child. He baked her favorite pastries, poured tea, pulled out old photo albums he wanted to reminisce about the good old days. But her visit wasnt about nostalgia.
Dad, she said coldly, 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 assumed she was joking, that she would laugh. Yet 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. I need that money more than you do! Youre alone why 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. He stood frozen, then collapsed to 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 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 Ill come if you decide to sell the flat.
Silence returned, the kind that rattles in the ears and leaves a hollow in the soul. He hung up, realizing he no longer had childrenonly 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. Hows she?
Shes in Italy, the man replied briefly. She married an Italian. Shes found her happiness.
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 heaviness in his chest. A low, dark sky pressed down outside. He pulled on his coat, stepped out, walked a few blocks, and discovered an old bench in a courtyard. He sat, closed his eyes, and his heart delivered its final, painful thud.
His soul, exhausted by pain, indifference, and silence, finally roseto 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.
Dad, Let Me Have Your Flat — You’ve Already Lived Your Life.” After saying this, she slammed the door…
