**Diary Entry:**
I held the wedding invitation in my hands, unable to believe what I was seeing. Golden lettering on cream-coloured cardstock announced the marriage of my father, James Whitmore, to a woman named Emily Dawson. The date was set for next week.
*Next week.* I turned the card over. *Couldn’t even be bothered to tell us properly.*
The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. My younger sister Sophie’s name flashed on the screen.
“Lily, did you get… the invitation?” Her voice sounded small, confused.
“I did. Did you know anything about this?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! I thought Dad was just seeing someone casually. And now—a wedding?”
I walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Outside, a light drizzle tapped against the window, matching the grey weight in my chest.
“Soph, have you seen her? This Emily?”
“Once, by chance. They were leaving a café. She’s young—thirty-five, tops. Dyed blonde, draped in gold jewellery and designer clothes.”
I winced. Dad was sixty-eight. The age gap was stark.
“Do you think it’s about money?” Sophie ventured. “Remember when Dad said he sold the cottage? And his flat in Westminster?”
“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 building. He’d moved here after selling the house we grew up in, citing convenience—but now, I wondered.
“My girls!” Dad greeted us with open arms. “I’m so glad you came. Let me introduce you to Emily.”
He looked years younger—freshly barbered, wearing a crisp shirt, his step lighter.
“Dad, we need to talk,” I said.
“Of course, of course! Emily’s just finishing dinner. You’ll see—she’s a fantastic cook.”
From the kitchen came the clatter of dishes and a woman’s voice humming. Dad ushered us to the sofa.
“I’m so happy you’ll meet her,” he beamed. “She’s kind, caring. I never thought I’d fall in love again at my age.”
Sophie and I exchanged glances. *Fall in love* sounded surreal coming from our sixty-eight-year-old father.
“How long have you known her?” Sophie asked.
“Four months. We met in hospital—she was visiting her mother. I walked her home…”
“Four months and already marrying?” I blurted. “Isn’t that too fast?”
“At our age, why wait?” Dad frowned. “We know what we want.”
Then she walked in—and Sophie was right. Emily couldn’t have been older than thirty-five. Tall, slender, honey-blonde hair curled perfectly. Her dress clung to her; her jewellery gleamed.
“Girls, this is Emily. Emily, my daughters—Lily and Sophie.”
“Lovely to meet you,” Emily purred, extending a manicured hand. “James has told me so much!”
Her voice was sweet, but something about it set my teeth on edge.
Dinner was lavish—new china, candles, flowers. Beautiful, but staged.
“Emily, tell them about yourself,” Dad urged, pouring wine.
“Oh, there’s not much to tell,” she laughed. “I’m a beauty therapist. No children. My ex-husband was… difficult.”
“Difficult how?” Sophie pressed.
“A drunk. Violent. After the divorce, I avoided men—until your father.”
She gazed at Dad with sickening adoration.
“Your parents?” Sophie asked.
“Just Mum. She’s ill—James helps with her medicines.”
Dad glowed with pride.
Later, in the hallway, I confronted him.
“Dad, she’s my age.”
“So? She chose this.”
“Are you blind?” Sophie cut in. “Why would a woman like her marry a man your age?”
“Enough!” Dad snapped. “You’re just bitter because your own relationships failed!”
The words stung.
Back home, Sophie rang a friend who worked in beauty. The truth unspooled: Emily’s mother was long dead. No trace of an abusive ex. Just rumours of wealthy older men bankrolling her lifestyle.
We rushed back to Dad’s flat, finding Emily already gone. The bedroom was a shrine to herself—Dad’s belongings shoved aside, Mum’s photos buried in a drawer.
When he returned, laden with shopping bags, Emily clung to his arm.
“James spoils me!” she trilled.
I turned to Dad. “She’s lying about everything. She’s using you.”
His face hardened. “Even if she is—I don’t care. At my age, I’ll take affection, even if it’s bought.”
The wedding went ahead. Emily glittered in white; Dad smiled emptily. By then, she’d moved in fully, sidelining us. Visits became strained.
Six months later, Dad was gaunt, frail. Emily’s care soured to resentment. One night, he admitted the truth:
“You were right, Lily. Pretend love is worse than loneliness.”
The next morning, Emily swept in with designer shopping bags.
“James gave me the money,” she shrugged when I challenged her. “He wants me to look nice.”
Dad said nothing, just pulled his blanket tighter.
A month later, a heart attack took him. Emily played the grieving widow at the funeral—then vanished, stripping the flat bare. All that remained was a note:
*”Thank you, James, for the lovely time. Take care.”*
I stood in the empty flat, where nothing of Dad remained. Not even Mum’s photos.
Emily got what she came for. And Dad died knowing some things—real love, true warmth—can’t be bought.
