“Dad, give me the flat—you’ve had your time.” After his reply, his daughter uttered three words and slammed the door.
Nicholas Pembroke had 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 office was his refuge, his only foothold. In the familiarity of routine, he found fleeting comfort. Lately, he lingered on the streets in the evenings, wandering aimlessly, dreading the return to his empty, silent flat. Without his wife, home had become a hollow shell where the echo of his footsteps was louder than the quiet itself.
His children—Sophie and Thomas—rarely visited. Less and less. Then almost never. It was as though their mother’s passing had severed the last fragile thread holding the family together. Nicholas feared loneliness, but more than that, he dreaded becoming nothing more than a burden to his own children.
More often than not, he caught himself scanning crowds for familiar faces, hoping someone might stop, greet him, embrace him. But strangers hurried past, and the ache in his chest grew sharper—if not from illness, then from the emptiness.
Then Sophie arrived—not with kindness or warmth, but with calculation in her eyes. Her visits were always brief, businesslike, revolving around the same topic: the flat. This time, she didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“Dad, how much longer? You’re living alone in a four-bedroom flat—it’s ridiculous. Sell it, buy yourself a one-bedder. Give me the money—we’ve got a mortgage, the kids need space.”
He stayed silent. His hands trembled. Words clogged his throat.
“Sophie, you know this was your mother’s and my home. I can’t just—” He couldn’t finish.
She stood abruptly.
“You’ve had your turn, Dad. Think about us for once,” she snapped, her voice tight with frustration.
“When will you think about visiting me again?” he whispered, so softly it barely carried.
She was already at the door. She turned and flung three words at him:
“After you’re gone.”
The door slammed, the sound echoing like a gunshot. Nicholas sat motionless, drowning in silence, until he finally mustered the strength to call Thomas.
“Tom, talk to me. She came again… about the flat… I don’t want to sell it,” he murmured, his voice unsteady.
A sigh crackled down the line.
“Dad, what do you expect? You’re alone in a massive place. Honestly, I wouldn’t say no to some help either. My car’s on its last legs—I’d like an upgrade. Just sell it. Don’t be selfish.”
“When will you come to see me?” he asked, clinging to hope.
“If you sell the flat—I’ll come.”
He hung up. Numb, he pulled on his coat and left. The weight in his chest was suffocating, the air thick as syrup. He walked blindly until he found an empty bench by the pond. Sat. Dropped his head. His heart struggled, then—simply stopped.
Nicholas Pembroke died alone. Among the trees, under a slate-gray sky, with a phone in his pocket. No one waited. No one searched. No one loved him. His heart hadn’t given out from betrayal—but from indifference. He hadn’t mattered as a man or a father. Only as the deed-holder of a property.
A day later, the door slammed open again. Sophie walked in—keys in hand. Her eyes held no tears, only cold calculation. Thomas arrived too—his new car gleaming in the driveway. The flat smelled of dust and solitude. And on the table—an old photograph. All of them together. With Mum. With Dad. Happy. Once.
But happiness, like love, slips away—when measured in square feet and pounds.
