**Father’s New Wife**
Clara held the wedding invitation in her hands, unable to believe what she was seeing. The cream-coloured card, adorned with elegant gold lettering, announced the marriage of her father, Edward Whitmore, to a certain Isabella Montgomery. The date was set for just a week away.
*”A week,”* she muttered, flipping the card over. *”Couldn’t even give us proper notice.”*
Her phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts. Her younger sister Emily’s name flashed on the screen.
*”Clare, did you get that… invitation?”* Emily’s voice sounded bewildered.
*”Got it. Did you know anything about this?”*
*”Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I thought Dad was just seeing someone casually. And now—bam!—wedding bells!”*
Clara walked into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Outside, a light drizzle fell, matching the grey, dreary weight in her chest.
*”Em, have you ever met this Isabella?”*
*”Once, by chance. They were leaving a café, and I drove past. She’s young—mid-thirties, tops. Bottle-blonde, dripping in gold and faux fur.”*
Clara winced. Her father was sixty-eight. The age gap was staggering.
*”You think it’s about money?”* Emily suggested. *”Remember when Dad mentioned selling the cottage? Plus, his two-bed flat in Kensington?”*
*”Not sure,”* Clara sighed. *”We need to talk to him.”*
*”Let’s go together. I’ll finish work early tomorrow.”*
The next day, the sisters met outside their father’s building. Edward had recently moved here after selling the three-bedroom house where they’d grown up. At the time, he’d said it was for convenience—closer to the city. Now Clara suspected other motives.
*”My girls!”* Edward greeted them with open arms. *”So glad you came! Let me introduce you to Isabella.”*
He looked years younger—new haircut, smart shirt, even his walk had a spring in it.
*”Dad, we need to talk,”* Clara said firmly.
*”Of course! Isabella’s just finishing dinner. She’s a marvellous cook, you’ll see.”*
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and a woman’s voice humming a pop song. Edward ushered his daughters into the living room.
*”Darlings, I’m so happy you’ll get to know Isabella. She’s wonderful—kind, caring. I never thought I’d fall in love again at my age.”*
Clara and Emily exchanged glances. The word *”love”* sounded odd coming from their sixty-eight-year-old father.
*”Dad,”* Emily began, *”how long have you known her?”*
*”Four months. Met at the GP’s office, in the cardiology queue. Her mum was in hospital, and she was upset. I comforted her, walked her home…”*
*”Four months, and already a wedding?”* Clara blurted. *”Isn’t that a bit… fast?”*
*”At our age, no time to waste,”* Edward frowned slightly. *”We’re not children. We know what we want.”*
Just then, a woman entered the room, and Clara instantly saw what Emily meant. Isabella looked no older than thirty-five—tall, slender, with honey-blonde waves and bold makeup. Her fitted dress and layers of jewellery screamed effort.
*”Girls, meet Isabella!”* Edward beamed. *”And these are my daughters, Clara and Emily.”*
*”Pleasure,”* Isabella purred, extending a manicured hand. *”Eddie’s told me so much about you!”*
Her voice was saccharine, and Clara’s instincts prickled.
Dinner was a lavish spread—expensive china (new, Clara noted), candles, flowers. It looked curated, not cosy.
*”Bella, tell the girls about yourself,”* Edward said, pouring wine.
*”Oh, nothing special,”* she laughed. *”I’m a nail technician at a Mayfair salon. Single, no kids. Was married, but my ex was… difficult.”*
*”Difficult how?”* Emily pressed.
*”Drink, temper. Had to divorce him. Swore off men after that—until I met your dad.”*
She gazed at Edward with such adoration Clara nearly gagged.
*”Parents?”* Emily continued.
*”Just Mum. Dad’s long gone. She’s poorly—I care for her. Eddie’s been a saint, helping with medicine costs.”*
Edward glowed with pride.
*”Dad, a word?”* Clara pulled him aside.
In the hallway, Edward stiffened. *”What is it?”*
*”She’s my age. Doesn’t that strike you as… odd?”*
*”She chose this!”* he snapped. *”Or do you think no one could love me unless they’re after my flat?”*
*”We’re worried, Dad!”*
*”Well, don’t be. I’m happy.”*
Later, Emily called a friend who worked in a nearby salon.
*”Isabella Montgomery? Oh, her,”* the friend sniffed. *”Good at her job, but she’s always chasing wealthy older men. Last boyfriend was a property developer—loaded. Then they split, and suddenly she’s back on the Tube.”*
When confronted, Edward just shrugged. *”Even if she’s after money, so what? I’m 68. I’d rather have company than die alone.”*
The wedding went ahead. Six months in, Edward looked exhausted. Isabella, however, thrived—until the money slowed.
*”Eddie, I can’t play nurse forever,”* she huffed, vanishing for days.
He called Clara one evening, voice frail. *”You were right. Pretend love is worse than loneliness.”*
A month later, Edward had a heart attack. Isabella visited once, then left. He died with his daughters by his side.
At the funeral, Isabella wore oversized sunglasses, playing the grieving widow. After, she cleaned out the flat—vanishing with a note: *”Thanks for the memories. Take care.”*
Clara stood in the empty flat, realising too late: love isn’t something you buy, and loneliness isn’t cured by gold diggers.
