“Dad, give me the flat—you’ve had your time.” After his reply, his daughter said three words and slammed the door.
Thomas Whitmore had lost his wife just six months earlier. 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 lifeline, the one thing keeping him grounded. In the familiar routine of the days, he found fleeting comfort. More and more, he lingered outside in the evenings, wandering aimlessly, unwilling to return to the empty, cold flat. Without his wife, the house had become a hollow shell, where the echo of his footsteps felt worse than silence.
His children—Sophie and James—visited him less and less. Then barely at all. It seemed the bond that once held them together had vanished with their mother. Thomas feared loneliness, but even more, he dreaded the realisation that to his own children, he was nothing but a useless old man.
He often caught himself scanning crowds for familiar faces, staring at strangers, hoping someone would stop, say hello, maybe even hug him. But people walked past, and his heart ached—not from illness, but emptiness.
Then she came—Sophie, his daughter. Not with concern or warmth, but calculation in her eyes. Her visits were always brief, cold, and inevitably turned to the same question—the flat. This time, she didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Dad, how long are you going to cling to this? A four-bedroom flat, all to yourself? It’s ridiculous. Sell it, buy a one-bedder. Give me the difference—we’ve got a mortgage, and the kids need space.”
He stayed silent. His hands trembled. Words stuck in his throat.
“Sophie, you know this was me and your mum’s home. I can’t just…” His voice trailed off.
She 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 about coming back?” he asked softly, almost whispering.
She was already at the door. She turned, tossing over her shoulder,
“After you’re gone.”
The door slammed. The sharp crack reverberated through the flat like a gunshot. Thomas sat motionless in the silence for what felt like hours. Then, mustering his strength, he dialled his son.
“James, talk to me. She came again—about the flat. I don’t want to sell it,” 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 on its last legs—I’d love an upgrade. Just sell it, yeah? Don’t be tight.”
“And when will you come see me?” he asked, clinging to hope.
“If you sell the flat, I’ll drop by.”
He hung up without another word. Pulling his coat from the hook, he stepped outside. The weight in his chest was suffocating, the air thick and heavy. He walked without direction until he found an empty bench by the pond. Sat. Dropped his head. His heart beat slowly, laboriously. Then—it simply stopped.
Thomas died alone. Under the grey sky, among the trees, his phone still in his pocket. No one waited for him. No one searched. No one loved him. His heart didn’t break from betrayal—but indifference. He wasn’t wanted as a man, nor as a father. Only as the deed-holder to a property.
A day later, the door slammed again. Sophie arrived—keys in hand. Eyes dry, mind already tallying figures. James pulled up outside—in a brand-new car. The flat smelled of dust and emptiness. On the table, an old photograph. Them all together. Mum. Dad. Happy. Back then.
But happiness, like love, slips away—when you measure it in square feet and banknotes.
