“Dad, sign the flat over to meyou’ve had your time.” The words hung in the air as his daughter slammed the door behind her.
He lived alone. Since his wife left, solitude had draped over him like a suffocating black shroud. Everything felt grey. Nothing brought him joy anymorenot the rare sunny days, not his strong morning cuppa, not the old films that once made the whole family laugh. Work was his only tether to the world. As long as he had the strength, he dragged himself there, because home was just unbearable silence. A silence that rang in his ears and stabbed at his heart.
Days blurred into one another, each a carbon copy of the last: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter visited less and less, vanishing from his life. Their calls were brief, perfunctory. Then they stopped answering altogether. He wandered the streets for hours, scanning strangers faces, hoping for something familiar. Old age didnt frighten himdying alone did.
He felt himself fading inside. His soul ached, shrivelling like paper in flame. He thought of his wifehow hed wanted to apologise but never dared dial her number. He still loved her. Regretted all the words left unspoken.
Then, one day, his daughter appeared at his door. His heart leapt like a childs. He baked her favourite scones, brewed tea, dug out old photo albumsaching to relive happier times. But she hadnt come for that.
“Dad,” she said, voice icy, “youre rattling around in this three-bed alone. Its not fair. Sell it. You could buy a studio and give me the rest.”
He stared, waiting for her to laugh. But her eyes held no jest.
“IIm not selling. This is my home your childhood rooms here, your mum and I”
“Youve had your life!” she snapped. “I need that money more than you! What use is all this space to a lonely old man?”
“When will you visit again?” he whispered, barely recognising his own voice.
She glanced at him with indifference, slipping on her shoes. “Your funeral.”
The door crashed shut. He stood frozen. Then collapsed. Pain hammered through his chest. He lay there for days. No food. No strength. No hope. Finally, he called his son.
“Oliver, please Im not well,” he pleaded.
A pause. Then, coldly: “Dont take this the wrong way, Dad, but that big flats wasted on you. Im saving for a caryou could help. Id visit if you sold up.”
Silence. The kind that echoes in your skull and hollows your soul. He hung up. Understood thenhe had no children left. Only strangers who shared his blood.
The next day, he stumbled into a chemist. By chance, he bumped into his ex-wifes brother, who looked startled but nodded.
“Emma?” he croaked. “How is she?”
“Gone to Spain,” the man said curtly. “Married a Spaniard. Found her happiness.”
*Found her happiness.* The words scalded him. He wasnt against her joyjust the aching void it left in him.
The following morning, he woke with a weight on his chest. Outside, the sky pressed down, thick and grey. He pulled on his coat, walked. Wandered until he found an old bench in a deserted square. Sat. Closed his eyes. His heart gave one last, brutal throb.
His soul, weary of pain and indifference and silence, finally rosetoward a place where no one betrayed. Where no one demanded more. Where, perhaps, someone might say to him again, *”Dad, I missed you”*
But that place wasnt here.
