“Dad, give up the flat—you’ve had your time.” After his reply, his daughter said three words and slammed the door.
William Bennett lost his wife just six months ago. With her went the last anchor in his life. He still went to work—not out of necessity, but to cling to some semblance of purpose. The job was his salvation, his foothold. In the familiar rhythm of daily routines, he found fleeting comfort. Evenings often found him lingering outside, wandering aimlessly, dreading the return to an empty, cold flat. The house without his wife had become a hollow shell, where the echo of his footsteps was louder than silence.
His children—his daughter and son—visited rarely. Then almost never. It seemed that with their mother’s passing, whatever fragile bond held the family together had vanished too. William feared loneliness, but even more, he feared becoming nothing but a useless old man to his own flesh and blood.
More and more, he caught himself scanning the faces of strangers for something familiar. He’d stare at passersby, hoping someone might stop, greet him, embrace him. But they walked past, and the ache in his chest grew heavier—if not from sickness, then from the emptiness.
Then she came—Emily, his daughter. She didn’t bring warmth or care, only calculation. Her visits were brief, curt, always circling back to the same conversation: the flat. This time, she didn’t bother with pretense.
“Dad, honestly, how much longer? You’re living alone in a four-bedroom flat—it’s ridiculous. Sell it, buy yourself a one-bedder. Give me the spare cash—we’ve got a mortgage, the kids need rooms.”
He stayed silent. His hands trembled. Words lodged in his throat.
“Emily, you know this was your mother’s and my home. I can’t just—” He couldn’t finish.
His daughter stood abruptly.
“You’ve had your turn, Dad. Think about us for once,” she snapped, her voice sharp with frustration.
“And when will you think to visit again?” he asked softly, barely above a whisper.
She was already at the door. She turned and tossed back,
“After you’re gone.”
The door slammed. The sharp crack echoed through the flat like a gunshot. William sat frozen in the silence, unable to move. Then, gathering himself, he dialed his son.
“Oliver, talk to me. She came again… about the flat. I don’t want to sell,” his voice wavered.
A sigh crackled down the line.
“Dad, be reasonable. You’re alone in that massive place. Honestly, I wouldn’t say no to a bit of help myself. My car’s falling apart—I’d like an upgrade. Just sell it, don’t be tight.”
“And when will you come?” he asked, hope creeping in.
“If you sell the flat—I’ll come.”
He didn’t wait to hear more. He hung up. Shrugged on his coat and left. The weight in his chest was suffocating. The air felt thick, unbreathable. He walked without direction until he found an empty bench by the pond. Sat. Dropped his head. His heart labored, sluggish. Then… it just stopped.
William Bennett died alone. Among the trees, under a leaden sky, a phone in his pocket. No one waited for him. No one searched. No one loved him. His heart hadn’t failed from betrayal—just indifference. He wasn’t needed as a man, as a father. Only as the owner of a property.
A day later, the door slammed again. Emily arrived—keys in hand. Eyes dry, mind sharp with scheming. And Oliver—fresh car parked outside. The flat smelled of dust and solitude. On the table lay an old photo. All of them together. Mum. Dad. Happy. Back then.
But happiness, like love, fades. When you measure it in square feet and pounds.
