“You’re Not a Bargain, Love”: How a Father Tried to Sell His Daughter’s Future, But Love Had Other Plans
“Sweetheart, marry Timothy Whitmore—you’ll live like a queen. He’s got a farm, a car, a proper house. What do you see in that penniless lad, Oliver?” snapped Victor Thompson to his daughter, his hands hovering over the stove for warmth while fury bubbled inside him. Not at her, really—just at her stubbornness.
Victor had spent his life as a tractor driver for an agricultural firm near Leeds. A practical man through and through: a semi-detached home, a veg patch, chickens, a shed full of tools, and a freshly painted fence. His wife, Mary—quiet, kind, hardworking. Their eldest, Daniel, was long married, but their youngest, Emily, had just finished nursing college. Pretty, rosy-cheeked, with clear blue eyes, and it near broke Victor’s heart—what if she threw herself away on the wrong bloke?
Victor’s old mate, Nigel Whitmore, had been his drinking buddy for twenty years. They’d fished, farmed, and downed pints together. Nigel ran a thriving dairy farm, sold at the local market, and had one son: Timothy. Well-off, though a bit of a prat, but Victor couldn’t imagine a better match.
“Em, love, think about it,” he pressed. “Timothy’s your ticket. Fancy counting pennies your whole life? Here’s your chance. That Oliver of yours—what’s he got? Orphaned, raised by his aunt in Bradford. No land, no prospects, not a quid to his name.”
Emily listened, lips pressed tight, then said firmly: “I won’t marry Timothy. I love Oliver. End of.”
Her words stung like a whip. Victor went pale with rage but swallowed it. The next day, he met Nigel at the pub—ale, crisps, blokey banter. By closing time, they’d agreed: Nigel would come ’round next weekend to “officially” propose. Victor staggered home, slamming the door. “We’re roasting the Sunday lamb tomorrow!” he crowed to Mary. “I’ve just betrothed our Em—she’s practically a Whitmore now!”
Mary went sheet-white. “Have you lost the plot? This isn’t a car boot sale—she’s a person, not livestock! What are you, a Victorian miser?”
Emily heard every word. That night, she stuffed a rucksack, scribbled a note—*Sorry, love you, can’t do this*—and slipped him out the bedroom window to Oliver’s flat. A week later, they tied the knot at the registry office—no fuss, no frills—and rented a cramped bedsit on the outskirts of town.
For a year, Victor refused to speak to her. Mary sneaked over with Tupperware meals, cuddles for the grandson Emily had eight months later. Then Oliver’s aunt passed, leaving them her crumbling terraced house. Brick by brick, he rebuilt it himself.
One day, Victor turned up unannounced, lingered at the gate, eyed the scaffolding, and grunted, “Need a hand with those foundations, son?”
That was the olive branch.
Six years on, Emily and Oliver had a two-storey home, a thriving smallholding, and two boys. The whole village was green with envy. Timothy Whitmore? Divorced twice, still living with his parents, jobless, and permanently glued to a lager can.
“They’re both our boys now,” Mary told the neighbours. “Oliver and Daniel—equally ours.”
And Victor, watching his grandsons chase chickens across the yard, thought how bloody lucky it was his daughter’s heart hadn’t listened to him that day.
