“Dad, give up the flat—you’ve had your time.” After his reply, his daughter spoke three words and slammed the door.
Edward 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 refuge, his lifeline. In the familiar rhythm of the days, he found fleeting comfort. Evenings stretched longer as he wandered the streets, reluctant to return to the hollow, silent flat. The house without his wife had become a barren box, where the echo of his footsteps sounded harsher than the silence itself.
His children—Emily and James—visited rarely. Then almost never. It seemed the bond that had held them together had vanished with their mother. Edward feared loneliness, but even more so, the thought that he had become nothing more than a burden to his own children.
More than once, he caught himself scanning the faces of strangers, hoping for a familiar smile, a greeting, an embrace. But people walked past, and the ache in his chest only deepened—not from illness, but emptiness.
Then she came—Emily, his daughter. Not with warmth, but calculation in her eyes. Her visits were always brief, cold, circling the same topic: the flat. This time, she wasted no time.
“Dad, seriously? You’re living in a four-bedroom place alone. It’s ridiculous. Sell it, buy a one-bed flat. Give me the difference—we’ve got a mortgage, the kids need space.”
He said nothing. His hands trembled. Words lodged in his throat.
“Emily, you know this was your mother’s and my home. I can’t just…” His voice trailed off.
She stood abruptly.
“You’ve had your time, Dad. Think about us for once,” she snapped, irritation sharp in her tone.
“And when will you think to visit again?” he whispered, barely audible.
She was already at the door. Turning, she said flatly,
“After you’re gone.”
The door slammed. The sound echoed through the flat like a gunshot. Edward sat in silence, unable to move. Then, mustering strength, he dialed James.
“James, talk to me. She came again… about the flat. I don’t want to sell,” he murmured, voice shaking.
A sigh crackled through the line.
“Dad, be realistic. You’re alone in that huge place. Honestly, I wouldn’t say no to the help either. My car’s falling apart—I want a new one. Just sell it. Stop being stubborn.”
“And when will you come?” he asked, hope brittle.
“If you sell the flat—I’ll come.”
He hung up. Put on his coat and left. The weight inside him pressed harder, the air thick and suffocating. He walked blindly until he found an empty bench by the pond. Sat. Dropped his head. His heart beat slowly, laboriously. Then… it simply stopped.
Edward died alone. Among the trees, under a grey sky, his phone still in his pocket. No one waited for him. No one searched. No one loved him. His heart gave way not to betrayal—but indifference. He wasn’t needed as a father. Only as the owner of a property.
A day later, the door slammed again. Emily arrived—keys in hand. Eyes dry, thoughts full of numbers. James pulled up in a new car outside. The flat smelled of dust and solitude. On the table, an old photograph sat untouched. All of them together. With Mum. With Dad. Happy.
But happiness, like love, slips away—when measured in square feet and banknotes.
