**Father’s New Wife**
I held the wedding invitation in my hands, unable to believe what I was seeing. Gold lettering on cream-coloured cardstock announced the marriage of my father, Victor Petrovich, to some woman named Inna Valeryevna. The date was set for next week.
“Next week,” I muttered, flipping the card over. “Couldn’t even bother to give us proper notice.”
My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. My younger sister Olivia’s name flashed on the screen.
“Laura, did you get that… invitation?” Her voice was shaky.
“Got it. Did you know anything?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I thought Dad was just seeing someone casually. And now all of a sudden—wedding!”
I walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. A light drizzle tapped against the window, and my heart felt just as grey and heavy.
“Liv, have you ever seen her? This Inna?”
“Once, by chance. They were leaving a café, and I was driving past. Young, mid-thirties at most. Bottle-blonde, dripping in gold and furs.”
I winced. Dad was sixty-eight. More than thirty years older.
“You think it’s the money?” Olivia suggested. “Remember when Dad said he sold the cottage? Plus, he’s got that two-bed flat in the city centre.”
“I don’t know,” I sighed. “We need to talk to him.”
“Let’s go together. I’ll leave work early tomorrow.”
The next day, we met outside Dad’s new flat—a place he’d moved into after selling our childhood home, claiming he wanted to be closer to the centre. Now I had my suspicions.
“My girls!” Dad greeted us with open arms. “So glad you came! I’ll introduce you to Inna.”
He looked younger, revitalised—new haircut, smart shirt, a spring in his step.
“Dad, we need to talk,” I said firmly.
“Of course, of course! Inna’s just making dinner. You’ll see, she’s wonderful.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and a woman’s voice humming some tune. Dad led us to the living room, settling us on the sofa.
“Sweethearts, I’m so happy you’ll get to know Inna. She’s kind, caring—I never thought I’d fall in love again at my age.”
Olivia and I exchanged glances. *Falling in love* sounded unnatural from a sixty-eight-year-old man.
“Dad,” Olivia began, “how long have you known her?”
“Four months. We met at the doctor’s surgery, in line for the cardiologist. Her mother was ill, and she was upset. I comforted her, walked her home…”
“Four months, and you’re already marrying her?” I blurted. “Isn’t that too fast?”
“At our age, there’s no time to waste,” Dad frowned slightly. “We know what we want.”
Just then, a woman walked in, and Olivia’s description was spot-on. Inna looked no older than thirty-five—if that. Tall, slender, honey-blonde hair styled to perfection, heavy makeup. Her dress clung to her, jewellery flashing at every move.
“Girls, meet my Inna!” Dad beamed. “This is Laura and Olivia.”
“So lovely to meet you,” Inna cooed, extending a manicured hand. “Victor’s told me so much!”
Her voice was sweet, but there was something sickly about it, something calculated.
Dinner was a show: fine china I’d never seen in Dad’s home, candles, flowers. Expensive. Artificial.
“Inna, tell the girls about yourself,” Dad urged, pouring wine.
“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” she laughed. “Just a working girl. I’m a nail technician. Single, no children. Was married before, but he was… complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Olivia pressed.
“Drank. Hit me. I left him. After that, I was afraid of men—until your father.” She gazed at him with such saccharine adoration, I nearly flinched.
“Your parents?” Olivia asked.
“Just my mum. She’s ill—Victor helps pay for her medicine. Such a generous man!”
Dad glowed.
Later, I pulled him aside. “Dad, she’s young enough to be your daughter.”
“So what? She chose this.”
“But why? Look at her—she’s after your money, your flat!”
“Stop!” he snapped. “You’re just jealous I’ve found love, and you haven’t.”
That stung—my divorce was still fresh.
The next day, Olivia’s friend who worked in beauty confirmed Inna’s history: wealthy older boyfriends, vanished mother (not ill—dead), no trace of an abusive ex.
We confronted Dad. He listened, then sighed.
“Maybe she lied. But I don’t care.”
“How can you not care?”
“I’m sixty-eight. Your mother’s been gone eight years. I’ve been alone, rotting. Now there’s a beautiful woman who smiles at me, cooks, pretends to care. So what if it’s an act? It’s better than nothing.”
The wedding went ahead.
Half a year later, Dad was a shadow—frail, sick. Inna’s smiles turned to sneers. She spent his money, stayed out late.
One day, he admitted he’d been wrong. “Pretend love… it’s worse than being alone.”
A month later, he was gone.
Inna took everything—jewellery, savings, even Mum’s photos. Left a note: *”Thanks for the lovely time.”*
The flat was empty. Just like Dad had been.
**Lesson learned:** Love bought is never love kept. Some prices are too high to pay.
