“Dad, hand over the apartment — you’ve already lived your life.” After saying those words, the daughter slammed the door shut…

He lived alone. Ever since his wife left, a deep sense of emptiness had wrapped around him like a dark, heavy cloak. Everything around him had turned gray. Nothing brought him joy anymore: not the sunny days, not a strong cup of tea in the morning, not the old movies they used to watch together as a family. Work had become the only thing keeping him connected to this world. As long as he had the strength, he kept going, because at home, the silence was unbearable. That silence echoed in his ears and tore at his heart.

The days passed, one after another, all the same — like copies: morning, bus, work, home, shadows on the walls, empty evenings. His son and daughter came by less and less, until they had nearly vanished from his life. Phone calls became short, mechanical. Then, they just stopped answering. He spent hours walking through the streets, studying the faces of strangers, as if hoping to recognize someone familiar in the crowd. What scared him wasn’t old age — it was dying alone.

He started to feel something fading inside him. His soul ached, curled tightly in a knot. He thought about his wife — he wanted to ask her for forgiveness, but never had the courage to dial her number. He still loved her. He regretted all the things he never said.

One day, his daughter showed up at the door. He felt as happy as a child. He made her favorite dessert, brewed some tea, brought out the old photo albums — he wanted to remember how things used to be. But that visit wasn’t exactly about that.

— Dad — she began coldly — you live alone in a four-bedroom apartment. It’s not fair. Sell it. You can buy a studio and give me the money.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He thought she might laugh, but there wasn’t a trace of humor in her eyes.

— I… I’m not selling anything. This is my home… this is where your childhood rooms are, where we lived with your mother…

— You’ve lived long enough! — she snapped, irritated. — I need that money more than you do! You’re alone — what do you need all that space for?

— When will you visit me again? — he asked in a whisper, barely recognizing his own voice.

She looked at him with indifference and, as she put on her shoes, replied: — At your funeral.

The door slammed shut. He stood still. Then, he simply collapsed to the floor. The pain in his chest hammered like a burning iron. He stayed like that for three days. No food, no strength, no hope. Then he called his son.

— Miguel, come… I’m not well — he pleaded.

His son listened. Stayed silent. Then said: — Dad, don’t be mad, but you really don’t need such a big apartment. I want to buy a car and you could help… I’d come over if you decided to sell the place.

And then, silence. The kind that echoes in your ears and leaves a hollow in your soul. He hung up. And understood — he no longer had children. Only strangers with his blood in their veins.

The next day, he walked into a pharmacy. There, he ran into his ex-wife’s brother. The man looked surprised and greeted him.

— Ana? — he asked — How is she?

— She moved to Italy — the man replied flatly. — Married an Italian. She found happiness.

“She found happiness…” Those words stung. He wasn’t against her happiness. He was against the emptiness that now filled his own life.

The next morning, he woke up with a weight on his chest. Outside, the sky hung low and gray. He put on his coat and left the house. Walked a few blocks. Found an old bench in a courtyard. Sat down. Closed his eyes. His heart gave one last, painful beat.

And his soul, weary from pain, indifference, and silence, finally rose — to a place where no one would betray him again. Where no one would ask him to give away what little he had left. Where, perhaps, someone might say again:

“Dad, I missed you…”

But that — was no longer here.