**Diary Entry**
James Whitmore 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 refuge, the one thing that kept him steady. In the monotony of routine, he found fleeting comfort. More and more often, he lingered on the streets in the evenings, wandering aimlessly, dreading the return to an empty, lifeless flat. The house without his wife had become a hollow shell, where the echo of his footsteps was louder than silence itself.
His children—Emily and Thomas—visited rarely. Then almost never. It seemed their mother’s passing had severed the last fragile thread holding the family together. James feared loneliness, but more than that, he feared becoming nothing but a burden to his own flesh and blood.
Lately, he caught himself scanning crowds for familiar faces, hoping someone—anyone—would stop, greet him, offer an embrace. But people walked past, and his heart ached sharper than any illness ever could.
Then she came—Emily, his daughter. Not with warmth, but with calculation in her eyes. Her visits were always brief, cold, circling back to the same demand: the flat. This time, she didn’t bother with pretence.
“Dad, really? A four-bedroom flat, all to yourself? It’s absurd. Sell it, downsize, give me the money. We’ve got a mortgage to pay, the kids need space.”
He sat silent. His hands trembled. Words stuck like stones in his throat.
“Emily, this was your mother’s home too. I can’t just—” He couldn’t finish.
She stood abruptly.
“You’ve had your time, 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. Turned, tossed over her shoulder:
“After you’re gone.”
The slam echoed like a gunshot. James sat motionless, drowning in the quiet, until finally, mustering resolve, he dialled Thomas.
“Tom, talk to me. She was here again… about the flat… I don’t want to sell,” his voice frayed.
A sigh crackled through the line.
“Dad, be reasonable. You’re alone in a massive place. Honestly, I wouldn’t say no to a bit of help myself. Fancy an upgrade on the car, you know?”
“And when will you come by?” he pressed, hope thin.
“If you sell the flat—then I’ll come.”
He hung up without another word. Shrugged on his coat and stepped out. The weight in his chest was unbearable, the air thick as tar. He walked without seeing until he found an empty bench by the pond. Sat. Dropped his head. His heart laboured, sluggish. Then—stopped.
James Whitmore died alone. Among the trees, under a leaden sky, a phone in his pocket. No one waited. No one searched. No one loved him. Not as a man, not as a father. Only as the deed-holder of a property.
A day later, the door slammed again. Emily arrived—keys in hand. Eyes dry, mind buzzing with sums. Thomas pulled up in a shiny new car. The flat smelled of dust and solitude. On the table, an old photograph. All of them together. With Mum. With Dad. Happy. Back when love wasn’t measured in square feet.
But happiness, like love, fades—when you tally it in metres and pounds.
**Lesson learned: A house is brick and mortar. A home is made of people. When they forget that, you’re left with nothing but empty rooms.**
