“Dad, Hand Over Your Flat — You’ve Already Lived Your Life.” After uttering these words, she slammed the door…

Dad, give me your flat youve already lived enough. After saying that, his daughter slammed the door shut.
He had been alone ever since his wife left, the loneliness wrapping around him like a heavy black veil. Everything seemed drab. Nothing brought him joy any longernot sunny days, not a strong morning tea, not the old movies that once delighted the whole family. Work was the only anchor left in his life. As long as he could muster the energy, he went in, because at home the silence was unbearable. That silence echoed in his ears and pierced his heart.
Day after day passed, each one a carbon copy of the last: bus, work, house, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, eventually fading from his life. Their calls were brief, courteous, then stopped altogether. He roamed the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces, hoping to spot something familiar. Age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt an inner extinction. His spirit ached, tightening. 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 old photo albumshe wanted to relive the good old days. But her visit had another purpose.
Dad, she said, her tone icy, 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 shed laugh. But 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 had enough! she snapped coldly. 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 indifferently, slipped on her shoes and said,
Til your funeral.
The door slammed. He froze, then collapsed onto the floor. A hammerlike pain struck his chest. He lay there for three dayswithout food, without strength, without hope. Finally, he called his son.
Michel, come I dont feel well, he pleaded.
His son listened. A silence followed, then he said,
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.
Another silence settled, the kind that echoes in the ears and hollows the soul. He hung up, realizing he no longer had children, only strangers who shared his blood.
The next day he walked into a pharmacy and ran into his exwifes brother by chance. The man, surprised, greeted him.
Anne? he asked. How is she?
She went to Italy, the man replied briefly. She married an Italian. Shes found happiness.
Shes found happiness The words burned him. He wasnt angry at her happiness; he was angry at his own emptiness.
The following morning he woke with a heaviness in his chest. A low, dark sky loomed outside. He pulled on his coat, stepped out, walked a few blocks, and found an old bench in a courtyard. He sat, closed his eyes, and his heart delivered its final, painful beat.
His soul, exhausted by pain, indifference, and silence, finally roseto a place where no one betrays, where no one asks for the last thing, where perhaps someone might again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.