Father Decided to Remarry
My mother, Anne, passed away five years ago. She was only forty-eight, and her heart gave out while she was watering the African violets on the kitchen windowsill. My father was fifty-five at the time.
He didnt weep or rage. He simply sat in her favourite armchair, gazing at her photograph. It was as though he believed he could will her back to life by staring long enough.
That day, I lost much more than my mother. In truth, it felt like I lost my father as well. He was still there, in the same flat, but it was as if only his shell remaineda ghost, cocooned in sorrow.
The first year was especially hard. I was twenty-three then and became, out of necessity, not only a daughter but a nurse and confidante as well. I simmered stews he never tasted, washed shirts he never bothered to wear, and I talked, endlessly, in hopeless attempts to pull him from the abyss hed fallen into.
But father kept silent. Sometimes hed reply with a terse word or two, each one stinging like a slap: Leave me be! Dont touch! Keep away!
Gradually, an impenetrable, grey wall grew between us.
***
Time slipped by. We drifted, living side by side, yet worlds apart.
Wed cross paths in the kitchen each morning before going our separate ways, and again in the evenings, sharing barely a handful of words before retreating to our own rooms. Conversation dwindled. Proper connection seemed long lost.
I stopped fussing over my father, and he seemed quietly grateful for the distance. Each of us grew accustomed to this muted new reality.
Without a wife. Without a mother.
***
After a time, hints of life returned to father.
He began to smile at Mrs. Baker next door, who often brought over her lovely scones and pies. He went fishing with an old friend and rediscovered his laptop and his favourite detective films.
I noticed the stoop of despair was retreating from his shoulders, and I dared to believe wed weathered the worst. I even accepted a summer job at a coastal spa, confident hed manage on his own.
When I came home, I was in for quite a revelation.
***
Father announced he was to marry again.
The moment I stepped through the front door, he told me the news, his tone steadyas if the decision was beyond question.
We sat in the kitchen, father across from me.
Ive met a lady, he said, breaking into a mild smile. Her names Margaret. We plan to marry.
A coldness swept over menot because hed found someone new, but because, in my mind, a warning bell went off: The flat!
Our flatwhere Id grown up, where mothers sewing machine still stood in the corner and her favourite mug rested in the cupboard. Not this chipped thing a stranger had left in the sink!
I eyed this unfamiliar cup with open contempt.
Dad, I began, choosing my words with care, dont you think its all a tad hasty? Do you really know her well? And where do you plan on living? Surely not here? This isnt just your flat. It was Mums too
Father lifted his eyes to me slowly, and in them I saw only weary, glacial disdain.
Ah, so that’s it, he said softly. Here we go. That didnt take long. Im not gone yet and already youre counting the spoils.
Im not! I burst out, stung. I just want to be clear! Its only sensible. With a new family, what happens if youif something happens to you? What do I do then?
You can worry about that when the time comes, he replied gruffly, before retreating to his room.
***
He brought Margaret round just days later. She was a tall, slender woman, sad-eyed but almost overly polite.
Emily, dear, I do understand how you feel, she assured me. But believe me, I have no designs on anything here. My own flat, my own lifeIm marrying your father because I love him.
Margaret tried to be warm, but her questions!
So, how far is your cottage from the city? she asked with innocent curiosity, And how long have you had this flat? These old terraces are quite prized now.
She disapproved of discussing inheritances ahead of time, insisting that such talk wounded father and made him feel unwanted.
By the end of her visit, my doubts had only deepened. I felt convinced she was sly and calculating. My relationship with father, already stretched, now frayed to breaking point. I saw an embittered old man, blinded by late-life passion and recklessly ready to give away everything. He likely saw only a grasping, mistrustful daughter, blind to his happiness.
Every conversation turned into a quarrel. He claimed his right to a private life. I demanded security for my future. We sharpened our words, wounding only ourselves.
***
Eventually, I snapped and suggested we see a solicitor to settle the matter of the property, once and for all.
Father resisted for quite some time, but finally sighed and agreed.
All right, he said sorrowfully. Lets do it your way.
The walk to the solicitors office was silent. I clutched my bag, steeling myself for battle.
It was hushed inside. Father sat apart, hands resting on his knees, his face unreadable.
The solicitor, a silver-haired woman with an austere expression, opened her file.
So, were here to she began in her businesslike voice.
One moment, father interrupted. His voice, though quiet, was so firm that I started. Im here for another matter.
He handed her a document.
She put on her glasses, scanned the page and looked up in surprise.
Are you certain? This is a deed of gift. Youre transferring all your property, fully and freely, to your daughter?
I felt my breath catch. What? He was giving it all to me, just like that? Was it some trick? Would he accuse me of coercion?
I searched his face for meaning.
But he looked at me with such expressionless sorrow that every part of me froze. There was neither anger nor hurt. Only endless disappointmentand pity. Pity for me.
There, he said quietly, rising and setting the signed paper before me. Take it. Everything you wanted. The flat. The cottage. Its yours. Now you neednt worry that this foolish old man will trade your inheritance for some imagined happiness.
The word happiness dripped with such bitterness it struck me like a slap.
Dad I I never meant I whispered, feeling tears of shame spill down my cheeks.
Didnt mean? He gave a hollow chuckle, far colder than any shout. Emily, these past six months youve never once asked after my health. Not a word about whether Im comfortable or if I need medicine. Your only questions have been about documents. Floor space. You dont see a father, only an obstacle between you and your property. Did you think I didnt notice?
He moved towards the door, pausing.
Youve dreamt of these walls? Well, take them. Theyre yours.
He left. I sat frozen, clutching the cold sheet of paper. I had wonsecured it all! And in that moment it struck me: I had lost everything.
***
Many years have passed.
Father and Margaret are still together. Sometimes I see them in the grocers or walking the gardens, always holding hands. Hes grown older, but when he looks at her, his face glows with contentment.
I live on my own.
In the three-roomed flat, now smartly renovated, with new furniture.
On weekends I go to my cottage in the countryside; everything is in perfect order.
Only happiness seems to have lost its way.
I realise now my father didnt deed the flat to me out of anger. He gave me what Id chosen for myself: walls and papers, instead of a person and love.
I swapped my own father for three rooms and a cottage. That realisationthe true inheritanceis the one I must carry forever.
