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

Dad, give me your flatyouve already lived enough. Those words hung in the air as his daughter slammed the door.
He had been alone ever since his wife left, a black veil of solitude draped over him. Everything seemed muted. No sunshine, no strong morning tea, no old movies that once delighted the whole family could lift his spirits. Work was his only anchor; as long as he could muster the strength, he went, because home was an unbearable silence that echoed in his ears and pierced his heart.
Days slipped by, each a carbon copy of the last: bus, work, house, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter drifted further away, their calls reduced to polite, brief greetings before they stopped answering altogether. He roamed the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces for a hint of familiarity. Age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
An inner extinguishing plagued him; his soul ached, contracted. He thought of his wifehe would have liked to apologize, yet never dared to dial her number. He still loved her and regretted all the unsaid words.
Then, one day, his daughter appeared at his door. He was as thrilled as a child. He baked her favorite pastries, poured tea, dusted off old photo albums, hoping to relive the good old days. But she had come for another reason.
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 could not believe his ears. He thought she was joking, that shed laugh. Yet there was no humor 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 lived enough! she snapped coldly. I need that money more than you do! Youre alonewhy keep all that 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 stood frozen, 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.
Mike, come I dont feel well, he pleaded.
His son listened. A silence followed, then he said,
Dad, no offense, but that big flat isnt really necessary for you. I want to buy a car; maybe you could help Ill come if you decide to sell the flat.
More silence fell the kind that reverberates in the ears and hollows the soul. The call ended. He realized he had no children left, 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 doing?
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 weight in his chest. A low, dark sky pressed down outside. He pulled on his coat and walked. After a few blocks he found an old bench in a courtyard, sat down, 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 asks for the last thing, where perhaps someone might once again say, Dad, I missed you
But that place was no longer here.