**Diary Entry – 14th March**
Six months have passed since I lost Eleanor. With her went the last vestige of stability in my life. I still go to work—not out of necessity, but to cling to some semblance of purpose. The routine is my only anchor, a fleeting comfort in the silence of these empty days. More and more, I find myself lingering in the streets after hours, wandering aimlessly, dreading the return to a home that no longer feels like one. Without her, the flat is just a hollow shell, every echoing footstep louder than the quiet.
The children—Alice and James—visit less often now. So rarely, in fact, that it’s almost stopped altogether. It’s as though Eleanor’s departure severed the fragile thread that held us together. Fear gnaws at me—not just of loneliness, but of becoming little more than a burden to them, an old man of no use to anyone.
Sometimes, I catch myself scanning strangers’ faces, hoping for a familiar smile, a greeting, even an embrace. But they walk past, eyes averted, and my heart aches—not from illness, but from the emptiness.
Then Alice came. Not with warmth, not with care, but with calculation in her gaze. Her visits are always brief, businesslike, circling back to the same topic—the flat. This time, she didn’t bother with pleasantries.
*”Dad, be reasonable. A four-bedroom flat, all to yourself? It’s ridiculous. Sell it. Buy a one-bed. Give me the difference—we’re stretched thin with the mortgage, the kids need space.”*
My hands trembled. The words stuck in my throat.
*”Alice, love, this was our home—mine and your mother’s. I can’t just—”*
She stood abruptly. *”You’ve had your time, Dad. Think about us for once.”* Her voice was sharp with impatience.
*”When will you think of me again?”* I whispered.
She was already at the door. Over her shoulder, she tossed three cold words: *”After you’re gone.”*
The slam shook the walls like a gunshot. I sat frozen, the silence pressing in, before mustering the strength to call James.
*”James… talk to me. Alice was here—about the flat. I can’t sell it.”* My voice cracked.
A sigh on the other end. *”Dad, really, what’s the point? You’re alone, the place is massive. Honestly, I could do with the help too—my car’s on its last legs.”*
*”Will you come see me?”* I asked, hope thin as paper.
*”If you sell the flat, sure.”*
I hung up. Pulled on my coat and walked out, the weight in my chest suffocating. The air felt thick, unwelcoming. I stumbled to an empty bench by the pond, sank onto it, head in hands. My heart beat slow and laboured… then stopped.
I died alone. Under grey skies, among the trees, my phone silent in my pocket. No one waited for me. No one searched. No one loved me. My heart didn’t break from betrayal—just indifference. I wasn’t a father, or even a man. Just the deed-holder of a property.
The door slammed again the next day. Alice arrived—keys in hand, eyes dry and shrewd. James pulled up in a new car. The flat smelled of dust and solitude. And on the table—an old photograph. All of us together. Mum. Dad. Happy.
But happiness, like love, fades when measured in square feet.
