My father, Arthur Whitfield, turned seventytwo and announced, with a grin that didnt quite reach his eyes, that he was going to marry his old schoolmate. The words hit me like a cold rain on a tin roof. Seventytwo! And still looking for love?
For two decades Arthur had lived alone since my mother, Eleanor, passed away. Thirty years ago I left the Whitfield farm, set up my own home in Manchester, and started a family of my own. Every Christmas and each summer, Clairemy wifeand our children, Tom and Lily, drive up the winding lanes to see him. Hes a sturdy old bull, never complaining about aches or the chill of winter, always out in the garden or chopping firewood, even though Claire and I still swing by whenever the hedges need trimming.
Then, just last week, he called me, his voice crackling over the line. Its time I bring a lady home, he said. He meant Margaret Hale, a girl hed known from the village school. Theyd been close friends, then drifted apart after school, each moving to different towns. Now, in the autumn of their lives, theyd decided to stitch their histories back together. It felt like a cruel joke.
When I heard of the wedding, I told him straight away that I couldnt imagine the children being there, that the ceremony should stay private. He brushed it off. A few months later, they held a modest gathering in the old barn, with a few neighbours and a cake that tasted of clotted cream and nostalgia.
What could have been missing in his long, solitary years that finally pushed him to this? The Whitfield estate is vast acres of rolling pasture, a working farm, and a house that has stood for generations. Margarets children and grandchildren are already eyeing the land, whispering about what could be theirs. I cant help wondering if this marriage is a gamble for money as much as for companionship.
Claire and I live in a modest threebedroom terraced house in Salford, a mortgage weve been chipping away at for half our lives. We have two kids, and Ive always believed that the older generation would keep the family home while the younger ones move on. Now the question of who inherits what hangs over us like a storm cloud.
We havent visited Arthur in six months. Each time we think of going, the thought of his new life with Margaret makes the trek feel like stepping into a battlefield. Relatives keep phoning, urging us to be glad our father has finally found happiness. I would be proud to see him smile, if only I didnt suspect that Margaret might be after the farm, and that we could end up warring with a swarm of inlaws over the very walls that have sheltered me since I was a boy.
Im at a loss. I cant keep turning a blind eye, yet I lack the strength to pretend everything is fine. What should I do? How do I pull myself out of this tangled knot before the Whitfield legacy is torn apart?
