“You’re Not for Sale, Love”: How a Father Tried to Bargain His Daughter’s Future, and How Love Set Things Right
“Sweetheart, marry Terry Levett—you’ll live like royalty. He’s got a farm, a car, a proper house. Why throw yourself away on that penniless lad Andrew?” Victor Yates spat the words at his daughter, irritation burning in his voice. He stood in the kitchen, warming his hands over the stove, fury simmering inside—not at her, but at her stubbornness.
Victor had spent his life as a tractor driver for an agricultural firm near Lincoln. He was practical to his bones: a detached home, four vegetable patches, geese, ducks, pigs, machinery, a fence of fresh galvanised steel. His wife, Mary, was quiet, kind, and hardworking. Their eldest, Daniel, had married years ago, but their youngest, Emily, had just finished nursing college. Pretty, rosy-cheeked, with bright eyes—and it pained him to think she might throw herself away on the wrong man.
Victor had a friend—Nigel Levett. They’d known each other over twenty years, shared drinks, sown fields, gone fishing together. Nigel ran a farm, sold meat and eggs at the market, and had one son: Terry. Well-off, though a bit sharp-tempered, but Victor couldn’t imagine a better match.
“Listen, Em,” he tried again, “Terry’s your ticket out. Fancy a life where you’re not counting pennies? This is it. But that Andrew… What’s he got? An orphan, raised by his aunt in Leicester. No land, no home, not a penny to his name.”
Emily listened silently, lips pressed tight, before answering firmly:
“I won’t marry Terry. I love Andrew. That’s final.”
Her words cut like a whip. Victor paled with rage but swallowed it. The next day, he met Nigel—they drank, ate, laughed. And by the end, they’d settled it: they’d arrange a betrothal the following weekend. Victor came home and, barely past the threshold, barked at his wife:
“We’re slaughtering the pig tomorrow! I’ve ‘pledged’ our Emily—she’ll be Terry’s bride now!”
Mary went white.
“Have you lost your mind? This isn’t a cattle auction! She’s a person, not livestock! What are you, some Victorian landlord?”
Emily heard everything. That same night, she packed a small rucksack, left a note for her mum—*Sorry, I love you, I can’t do this*—and slipped out the window to Andrew. A week later, they married quietly—no wedding dress, no fuss—renting a room in a shared house on the city’s outskirts.
For a year, Victor wouldn’t speak to her. Mary visited in secret—bringing food, hugging the grandson Emily had eight months later. Then Andrew’s aunt passed, leaving them her crumbling cottage. He started building a new home, brick by brick, all by hand.
One day, Victor came to them unannounced. He stood at the gate, watched the construction, then asked gruffly:
“Well then, son-in-law, need a hand with that foundation?”
From that day, they made peace.
Six years on, Emily and Andrew had a two-storey house, livestock, machinery, and two sons. The whole village envied them. As for Terry Levett? Twice divorced, still living with his parents. Jobless, aimless, a bottle never far from his grip.
“That’s our lad,” Mary would say to the neighbours now. “Andrew and Daniel—both ours.”
And Victor, watching his grandsons play, would think how glad he was his daughter’s heart hadn’t betrayed itself that day.
