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

Dad, give me your flat youve already had your share of life. With those words, his daughter shut the door behind her.
He had been living alone ever since his wife left, the loneliness wrapping around him like a thick black veil. Everything seemed muted. No longer did anything bring him joynot the sunny days, not a strong cup of tea in the morning, not the old movies that once delighted the whole family. Work was the only anchor left in his world. 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 replica of the last: wake, bus, job, 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, and then they stopped answering altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces, hoping to glimpse something familiar. Age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt an interior 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 words left unsaid.
Then, one day, his daughter appeared at his doorstep. He was as delighted as a child. He baked her favorite pastries, poured tea, pulled out the old photo albumshe wanted to reminisce about the good old days. But her visit was not for that.
Dad, she said in a cold tone, you live 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. 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 had enough life! she snapped. I need the 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,
Come to your funeral.
The door slammed. 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.
Michel, come I dont feel well, he begged.
His son listened. A silence followed, then he said,
Dad, no offense, but that huge flat 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 hung, the kind that rattles in the ears and empties the soul. The call ended. He realized he no longer had childrenonly strangers who shared his blood.
The next morning he entered a pharmacy and, by chance, ran into his exwifes brother. The man greeted him, surprised.
Anne? he asked. How is she?
Shes in Italy, the man replied briefly. She married an Italian. Shes found her happiness.
Shes 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 and stepped out, wandering a few streets until he found an old bench in a courtyard. He sat, closed his eyes, and felt his heart deliver its final, painful beat.
His soul, exhausted by pain, indifference, and silence, at last rosetoward a place where no one betrays, where no one asks for the last thing, where perhaps someone might once again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.